


The Informant

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Corrupt police, Domestic Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Fertility Issues, Foster Dad Aziraphale for the win, Gabriel is a jerk, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Organized Crime, but lots of angst first, more tags to come as new chapters are posted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Fiona Fell was new to the ranks of already established detectives on the police force in Soho, ready to make a name for herself, and prove that she was not her father's daughter. But when she becomes tangled in a war between rival gangs, she will find that the law is not always black and white. And neither, for that matter, are the desires of the heart. AU Crowley/OC
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s), Gabriel (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! So I've been actively posting over on ffnet (username: MusesOwnMyMind) for quite some time, but decided to dust off this account and start posting here, too, just for kicks! Since I've been rather more than a little hooked on writing for Good Omens, lately, I figured I would start posting those stories, here, first. So, as is my usual modus operandi, so to speak, I welcome you all to the end-product of my crazy muses! Please, feel free to read, comment...whatever you would like! I really look forward to hearing what you think! 
> 
> With love,  
> MOMM/MJR

Tossing her glasses on the desk with a muted clicking sound, and lifting both hands to massage at throbbing temples not long thereafter, the dark-haired detective let out a low groan of frustration as the document emailed to her from the forensic department yielded the precise results she had anticipated. Inconclusive. She hated the word, she decided, even though she had learned through her experience on the job, so to speak, that such a thing was, regrettably, a common occurrence for not only herself, but her colleagues as well. But this particular report had been integral in the case she was working. It had been the thing she had hinged her hopes on when it came to wrapping things up quickly, and obtaining justice for a grieving family, in the process.

Pity, she thought, that the one time she truly needed something definitive had been the time fate decided to intervene and make things difficult.

Of course, she didn't blame the lab. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Newt would have been nothing short of thorough in his investigations. But that still was not entirely enough to assuage her lingering aggravation, regardless, her fingernails digging against the skin of her temples for a moment before the sensation of a rough hand coming to rest upon her shoulder effectively startled her away from her own internal musings.

"Still here? Thought we were going to call it an early night."

"You came back?"

"When you weren't home when you said you'd be, yeah. I came back," Gabriel quipped, somehow seeming capable of making the reply carry a faint level of sarcasm with it, despite the fact that he was looking down at her with an empathetic smile, "Fiona, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, there's no need to live in this place just because you're working a difficult case."

"This isn't just any difficult case, though, Gabe. It's—"

"If you say different, Fi, I swear—"

"It is," The young woman insisted, dragging a hand through already tousled dark hair, and flinching away subconsciously as she realized her companion had lifted his own hand to tuck a few stray locks behind her ear, "It's the first one I've worked on my own since Sergeant Shadwell retired, and—"

"And there will be plenty more like it in the future. Let someone else do all the hard work. Isn't that what you have a partner for?"

"I have a partner so we can share the load, not so I can dump all my work on one person and party the night away."

"I think that's allowed if the night in question is your anniversary," Gabriel countered, heaving an aggravated sigh as he watched Fiona's blue eyes widened in surprise, "God, don't tell me you forgot."

"I—I didn't. Not really. I just—I got caught up, and I just got this report—"

"And it's—inconclusive. Right. Well I guess that means you can come home, now."

"It's not that simple, Gabe," Fiona protested, gently nudging at her companion's shoulder, as he had leaned across her desk to peer at the email still opened on her computer screen, thus obstructing her ability to do anything even remotely resembling her job, "I need to go talk to Newt. See if there are other tests we can run."

"Can't that wait? Just because the commander of the nerd herd doesn't have a life doesn't mean you can't."

"Newt has a life. He's just—"

"Obsessive? Neurotic? Odd as hell?"

"Dedicated," The detective corrected, closing the window housing her email account, and turning to face Gabriel with a raised brow that ought to have indicated he should stand back so she could rise from her chair, but instead seemed to only encourage him to crowd her further back against the desk, leaning closer until she could smell the hints of his cologne and feel the soft gusts of his breath against her skin, "Gabe, come on—"

"What, a guy can't take advantage of having his fiancé alone in a semi-dark room?"

"Not when she's got a job to do, no."

"You are no fun sometimes, you know that, Fi?" Gabriel groused, pulling back with a huff, and watching as she skirted around him and headed towards the door at the opposite end of the room that he knew would lead to the stairwell that descended to the basement, and the aforementioned forensics department, "I'll just wait here, then, shall I?"

"Or I could just meet you at home."

"Right. I agree to that, and I'll just be coming back to find you here another hour later. I'll stay."

"Suit yourself," Fiona murmured, heading towards the stairwell without a backward glance, while the thumb of her left hand took up its habitual task of spinning the almost obscene engagement ring on her ring finger as it always did when she was agitated. In truth, she really had forgotten about their anniversary, though she would be damned if she admitted that to Gabriel. He had made no secret of his disapproval of her choice in career, regardless of the fact that he had chosen the same for himself.

She was aware that, if she pushed her luck, she'd likely find herself succumbing to the pressure to simply resign, and if she knew one thing at all, it was that if she had nothing to do to occupy her time save for amble about a large manor house waiting for her husband-to-be to return home every night, she would lose her mind.

Suppressing a groan at the thought, Fiona settled herself instead to focusing upon the task at hand, her boots making muted clicks as she moved down the stairs and headed towards the door leading to the precinct's lower level. Though she had always enjoyed talking with Newt, whether or not those discussions turned up anything productive or useful to whatever case she was working at the time, the young woman was well aware that if she tarried too long, it might very well encourage Gabriel to come looking for her, himself. And although she was loathe to do anything in that particular moment to avoid giving the impression that she was catering to her fiancé's apparent desires, Fiona was also very much unwilling to subject poor Newt to the constant ribbing and passive aggressive remarks that would only be too likely should Gabriel turn up in the lab on his own.

She would simply take care of the few remaining questions she had for him as they related to his report, and then she would allow herself to be whisked away for the evening to celebrate something that she was not even sure she wanted, anymore…

Anything more was just asking for trouble.


	2. Dead End

"Newt—you have a minute?"

"Sure thing," The dark-haired head of the forensics team replied, one hand lifting to nudge his glasses back to their proper location on his nose, while the other closed the book he had been perusing with a soft thud, "I assume this is about the—report—I sent you?"

"It is," Fiona confirmed, managing a small smile in the wake of Newt's almost sheepish expression over having been right in guessing why she was there at all, and moving forward to lean against the countertop that separated the two of them before going on, "I just wanted to run the possibility of extra testing by you—get your thoughts."

"You think there's something more we can find?"

"I have to, Newt. I have to, because I can't go back and face that family and tell them we've still got nothing to go on."

"They didn't have any—any insight for you?" Newt inquired, fiddling with his glasses once again as they persisted in the act of attempting to slide down his nose, "Not even a little bit?"

"No. Nothing."

"Could they be trying to hide something?"

"Honestly?" Fiona mused, plopping onto the stool that stood on her side of the countertop, and resuming the task of leaning against it with both elbows with a heavy sigh, "I don't know. They'd have no reason to hide anything. Or, at least none that I can think of."

"Doesn't mean they don't, though."

"That's very helpful, Newt, thank you."

"Sorry," Newt apologized, managing a very convincingly remorseful expression in the wake of his colleague's dejected stare, and attempting to make himself more useful by suggesting something he had been considering for a while, himself, if he were to be completely honest, "Have you—have you thought of going back to Shadwell?"

Biting her lower lip in response to the suggestion, Fiona remained silent for a moment or two, already mulling over the possibility of turning up something fruitful if she did what her friend had said. It was true, her former mentor might be able to offer some brilliant piece of insight into the case she was working—something that she had obviously remained blind to up until this very point. But inasmuch as she knew she could always go to the elderly sergeant for advice, Fiona was also aware that the man's so-called bad days more often than not seemed to overwhelm the good, anymore…

It had been those 'bad days', she recalled, that had forced him into an unwanted retirement to begin with.

A frown tugged at her lips in response to the thought, the idea of such a renowned person becoming nothing more than a laughingstock to the majority of the force that remained at the precinct causing her stomach to twist with regret. He had been one of the best, once. The man nearly everyone turned to when they struggled with their own caseload, and the one who, more often than not, was able to lead them in the right direction for a speedy close. But now, Fiona knew, she was every bit as likely to get nonsense spewed her way as she was anything of logic, her brow furrowing just a bit as she regarded Newt for another beat of silence before breaking it once again.

"I hadn't yet, no. I figured I'd see about more tests, first."

"What kind of tests?"

"You're the expert in forensics, Newt. I'd hoped you would tell me."

"Right," Newt acknowledged, flushing a bit as he realized her answer was only what he already ought to have predicted, and averting his gaze to the countertop suddenly, as though it had just become the most fascinating thing in the world. It wasn't that he was ordinarily this nervous, he supposed. In fact, most of the time, when left to his own devices, he was rather quick on his feet, and everyone he worked with knew it. But something about the appearance of one Detective Fell, or Detective Device in his inner sanctum, as he liked to call the rooms of the basement devoted to the forensic sciences always rendered him rather woozy, as though he had just spent an impossible amount of time underwater, and had only just decided to come up for air, "Well, we could—we could always do mass spectrometry. You know, where you—"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Fiona cut in, regretting the need for cutting Newt short, as she had always rather enjoyed allowing him free reign to wax eloquent about his obvious passion for his work, and yet knowing that if she allowed him to do exactly that, it would only prolong her visit and likely result in the appearance of her rather impatient fiancé, to boot, "Sorry, Newt, I'd love to hear all of the nitty gritty details, but—"

"But you have somewhere else you need to be."

"Unfortunately. Technically speaking, I was supposed to have taken an early night."

"Gabriel?"

"How did you know?"

"You always get this pained look on your face when you're thinking of him," Newt confessed, flinching a bit in surprise as he realized he truly had said the words out loud, and yet finding himself more than a little relieved when Fiona simply emitted a genuine laugh in response, "Sorry. I—I didn't mean to offend."

"Trust me. You didn't," Fiona assured, ignoring the small jolt that had hit her head-on as she realized perhaps she was not, in truth, the only one who knew of her sudden reluctance when it came to her fiancé, and choosing instead to focus upon the amusement she felt over poor Newt's obvious embarrassment, "I just didn't realize it was that obvious."

"It's not! Not really."

"Newt—"

"Well, it's not," The bespectacled man pressed, his fingers drumming on the countertop for a moment as he watched Fiona hop down from the stool she had been sitting upon, and frowning a bit as he realized she really did need to leave, "I just—I thought you loved him."

"I did! I mean—I do," Fiona stammered, her teeth taking up the task of chewing at her lower lip as soon as she realized the slip she had made, while one hand lifted to rake through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to remove it from hanging over her brow, "Listen, Newt, I just—I really need to go—"

"Okay. Right. Well, I'll let you know the results of the mass spec as soon as I get them, then?"

"Yeah. Please."

"Very good," Newt acknowledged, watching as Fiona headed back towards the door, and wetting his lips with his tongue for a moment before deciding to call out to her one final time before she disappeared from view, "Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"You'll get them. Whoever did it, I mean," He encouraged, aware of the slight slump to her shoulders, and suddenly finding that he would have done anything to relieve it, whether it rested within his power to do so, or not, "And if you remember, could you—could you tell Anathema to stop by and see me sometime? I've got something I wanted to show her, if she's interested."

"I'll do that, Newt," Fiona replied, sending her colleague a knowing grin, and suppressing a laugh as she saw the answering flush that rose to his cheeks almost as soon as the words had left her mouth.

"You know, maybe one of these days you'll just ask her out, and then we won't have to deal with all of this extra running around…"

After all, Fiona knew very well that the only person who didn't seem to have a clue about the exact depth of Newt's feelings for her partner was Anathema, herself, and she would be damned if she didn't try and find some way of getting them together.

Just because she was not as enthralled with her own future anymore didn't mean everyone else had to be that morose about theirs, as well.

…

"Are you really going to eat—that?" Gabriel inquired, pointing at the rather obscenely large slice of cheesecake that the waiter had just deposited upon the table, and lifting a brow as the remark earned him a sharp look from his fiancé before she rather pointedly stuck her fork in the cake, and took a bite with an angelic smile, "It's—nothing but sugar."

"Yes, and I happen to like it, thank you very much," Fiona quipped, closing her eyes for a brief moment after her reply, both in an effort to restrain her often whip-like tongue, and to savor the bite of cheesecake in spite of her fiancé's apparent disdain, "And before you go on the 'don't sully the temple' business, I think a good round or two at the gym will more than make up for this little—slip."

"Eventually that technique isn't going to work, Fi. Age catching up with you, and all that."

"Well, when I get old, I'll keep that in mind. Until then, I think I can eat what I bloody well please."

"You're far too much like Aziraphale for your own good, you know," Gabriel insisted, ignoring the immediate roll of the eyes that his comment provoked, and leaning back in the chair he occupied for a moment before going on, "That man did you no favors, letting you eat like that."

"So, the man taught me a healthy appreciation of good food. I'm still here, aren't I? Haven't dropped of a heart attack, yet."

"Yet. That's the key word, Fi, you have to see that."

"How about we stop talking about all of Aziraphale's apparent 'failings' as you see them," Fiona suggested, her tone brittle, to say the least, as she managed another bite of her cheesecake, and exhaled through her nose in the hopes that it would give her the pause she needed to avoid allowing her aggravation to get the better of her, "The man took me in when I was six years old. I had nothing save for a future on the streets, and he gave me a better life, instead, so I think that more than makes up for any faulty judgement about food."

"Well far be it for me to try and keep you alive for as long as I can," Gabriel chuckled, making light of the situation as best he could, though for her part, Fiona did not appear to be as amused as he had hoped, "I'm sorry, babe. I'll stop."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. So—get anything useful out of the nerd herd?"

"You mean Newt?" Fiona corrected, lifting a brow as though daring her fiancé to persist in trying to push her buttons, so to speak, and almost immediately realizing that the gesture appeared to have no impact on Gabriel's stance, in the slightest, "Yes. He's going to run another test. I'll spare you the details, though."

"Why?"

"Why? You really have to ask that?" The young woman questioned, incredulity coloring the words, though she did manage to reign in at least some of that in her ensuing remark, "Because I doubt you'll be all that interested, seeing as it's not your case."

"It's yours," Gabriel countered, the slight scoff Fiona gave prompting him to reach across the table, and grab for her hand, twining their fingers together before she had a chance to pull away, "That means it's important to me, too."

Unable to resist the sigh that left her lips in response to the obvious attempt at reassurance, Fiona glanced down at Gabriel's much larger hand as it held onto her own, her brow furrowing for a moment as she noted the contrast of the tan shade of his skin with the paler hue of her own. He had always been like this, she realized—quick to judge, and equally as quick to attempt to divert her attention after she had made it known that his remarks had caused offense. And although some small part of her recognized his habitual manner of making amends as slightly problematic, Fiona did not quite possess the strength to call him on it at the present, her posture relaxing just a bit as she managed a brief squeeze of Gabriel's hand before gently tugging her own away, and returning to the task of finishing off her cheesecake with something more akin to her usual gusto while she spoke.

"Maybe we can talk about that later," She said, forcing a faint smile to her lips around her next mouthful of dessert, and realizing that her suggestion appeared to have been met with nothing short of abject enthusiasm as Gabriel nodded almost eagerly before he spoke in corroboration with her thought.

"Maybe we can," He mused, grinning suddenly as a sudden idea came to mind, and leaning forward almost conspiratorially, as though what he was about to suggest as an alternative plan for the evening was something Fiona had not already anticipated, albeit a bit reluctantly, herself…

"You finish that fast enough, maybe we can get home in enough time to make up for your indulgence without the gym."

"Yes," Fiona mused to herself, popping another piece of cheesecake into her mouth in order to prevent herself from actually speaking her opinion out loud, and risking the prospect of the evening turning sour when all she really wanted was a moment's peace.

"Because sex really does solve everything."

…

The following morning found Fiona walking up the gravel path that led to Sergeant Shadwell's small home, her hands stowed inside her jacket pockets while her shoulders hunched forward just a bit in response to the chill in the air. Her old mentor, it seemed, had been expecting her, her hand only just lifting to rap upon the door, before it was wrenched open and she started backwards as she felt herself once again pinned beneath the weight of piercing blue eyes. Many times before, she had been on the receiving end of the now-familiar stern gaze, stammering through a case report and waiting to have her theories torn apart bit by bit. But now, all she could see when she looked at the man standing before her was a tired man. A bitter man. And a man that seemed more than a little startled by her appearance on his front door despite having thrown it open before she could knock, his thick brows lifting towards his hairline for a moment before he stepped back to allow her entry into his home.

"What're ye still hangin' about on the stoop for, lass? Come in, come in."

Hurrying to do as she had been told, Fiona stepped across the threshold, her eyes scanning the cramped foyer for a moment, while Shadwell occupied himself with shutting the door. In just a few moments, she had already gathered that the place could have done with a genuine clean, and perhaps even a bit of airing out, as well. But before she could find any polite way to offer her own services as they pertained to such a thing, knowing the man had no family to speak of, and would not be likely to welcome a stranger into his home to do anything of the sort, Fiona found herself rendered silent by the gentle pressure of a calloused hand upon her shoulder, her eyes once again meeting the brilliant blue that had become almost comforting to her over the years as a voice gruff from likely lack of use reached her ears once more.

"What brings ye here, lass? Trouble wi' a case?"

"You might say that," Fiona admitted, somewhat pleased with the fact that for all of her former concerns, her former mentor appeared to be in the proper frame of mind for what she wished to discuss, "I wondered if I might run a few things by you. Get your opinion."

"Always. Whene'er you, or yer partner need it, I'm here. Ye know that, sprite."

Smiling at the warmth brought about by the familiar nickname, Fiona allowed Shadwell to lead her from the foyer, to the little den situated at its end, her eyes following his movements as he shuffled aside some old newspapers that were sitting on the sofa cushions so that she might have a place to sit. The papers having been deposited on a nearby coffee table, Shadwell shuffled over to the small kitchenette under the guise of preparing tea, though Fiona knew without a doubt if he prepared it in the usual way—nine sugars, and more than a few generous dollops of condensed milk—she would only hold the cup to be polite. And although she was still a bit reluctant when it came to coming here in the first place, she could not help but take comfort in the familiarity of the man's presence, a breath escaping her lungs in a rush before she forced herself to summon the wherewithal to begin.

"There was a—a young woman who was murdered just on the edge of town," She informed, registering Shadwell's nod as he puttered about with the tea preparations, and taking it as leave to carry on while he worked, "We've tried running every lead we have, and they've all come up empty, and aside from Newt running mass spec, I've got nothing conclusive from lab tests either."

"Which edge o' town, lass? North? South?"

"East."

"Oh—an' ye've checked wi' the local gangs?"

"We have. They all claim no one saw, or heard of a thing."

"Wha' about The Serpents? They're still one o' the heavy hitters over there, 'least they were in my day," Shadwell mused, ambling back over with two cups of steaming hot tea in his hands, so that he could place one in his young protégé's hands, before settling into a large wing-back chair with his own, "Might be they could think o' somethin' useful."

"Maybe they could, if anyone could find one of them to ask," Fiona agreed, shifting the teacup in her hands so that the warmth spread across her chilled palms, "But that's how they've survived this far, isn't it? Not being readily available to the police, or anyone else, for that matter?"

"Aye, it is, lass. But if my suspicion is right, ye'll be needin' 'em to fix your case."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Used to be, nothin' went down in that part o' town wi'out The Serpents getting' wind o' it and givin' it their approval," Shadwell explained, pausing for just long enough to take a sip of his own tea, before placing it on the table beside the chair so that he could go on unimpeded by anything to deter his focus, "Ye want information about the real motivatin' force behind anythin' that happened to yer victim, ye go to them."

"But that's just it. I can't go to them. I've got no bloody way in," Fiona protested, glancing down at her still-steaming tea, and frowning a bit as she realized the small shred of hope that had kindled in her mind at the mention of an as yet unturned stone, such as it was, was scratched out before it had even had the chance to breathe, "It's not as if I can just walk up to someone on the street and ask where I might find their front door."

"Ye didn't let me finish, lass," Shadwell admonished, leaning forward until his elbows rested upon his knees, and fixing his companion with a somewhat stern expression, though there was no real malice in it, whether he wanted there to be, or not, "I may have somethin' to help ye in that regard."

"What, like a secret way into their hidden lair?"

"Easy on the sarcasm, sprite. 'T'isn't polite."

"Right. Sorry," Fiona murmured, a small flush adorning her cheeks as she squirmed just a bit on the sofa cushions, and peered up through her eyelashes at Shadwell just in time to note that he had donned a rare half-smile for her benefit before he shook his head as though to dismiss her guilt over any wrong doing in one fell swoop as she spoke once more, "Go on."

"Back in the day, I had a man on the inside," He began, leaning back in the chair he occupied almost as quickly as he had leaned forward, and regarding the young woman before him with an unreadable expression for a moment before going on, "Up and comin' young lad. Was makin' a name for himself in the higher ranks. Might be he could be of use to ye, in your inquiries."

"Sure. I—I'll take anything, at this point," Fiona replied, eager to encourage her mentor to continue on with his current idea, no matter how tenuous the possibility of it turning up anything useful may be, "What's ah—what's his name?"

"Anthony," Shadwell answered, rising from his chair to shuffle over towards his kitchen table, and rifling through the myriad papers and file folders strewn out over the surface for a moment before he finished.

"Anthony J. Crowley. Just as soon as I find his number, lass, I'll set ye' a meet."

Fiona could only hope that this unexpected lead would pan out, because if it did not, she honestly did not have a clue what she would do to keep the case moving forward…

…


	3. The Meet

"So—when's the meet?" Anathema inquired, absentmindedly fiddling with the straw that was placed in the over-sized Styrofoam cup of Diet Cola on her desk, such that it made a soft squeaking sound every time it moved. Her partner had just returned from a morning visit to Sergeant Shadwell, her coat slung over the back of her chair, as she had not, apparently, thought she had the time to hang it up properly upon her return to the precinct. And, although Anathema was not the sort to make a point of forcing the young woman to talk, if she was much more content simply absorbing herself in her work, this time she seemed powerless to resist, her elbows coming to rest on the surface of her desk as she leaned forward and pursed her lips for a moment before diving in, head first, so to speak.

"Come on, Fi, you've got to give me something, here."

"Mm?' Fiona murmured, tearing her attention from her computer screen, and frowning as she realized that she had completely missed the fact that Anathema had been talking to her, at all, "Sorry, Ana, I—could you repeat that?"

"I asked you when's the meet. You know—with Shadwell's little—friend."

"Tonight. And I'm not too sure they're exactly friends."

"No?"

"No. From what Shadwell said, it seemed like it was more of a relationship of necessity, not choice."

"Did he tell you anything more than that?" Anathema pressed, aware of Fiona's almost immediate shake of the head in denial, and choosing to add another question to her inquiry as a result, "He didn't even tell you what he looked like?"

"He described me to him," Fiona said, a furrow marring her brow as she tucked a loose lock of hair behind an ear, and shifted in her chair to face her partner more directly, "Said that ought to be sufficient."

"Wow. Sounds fun."

"Seriously?"

"What, a girl needs to live somehow, and if I can't do it on my own, I'm sure as hell going to live vicariously through you!" Anathema exclaimed, ignoring her partner's rather obvious roll of the eyes in favor of going on before Fiona gathered the wherewithal to stop her, "Want to know what I think?"

"I have a feeling I'm going to find out, either way," Fiona teased, unable to resist the grin that stole across her features even in the face of how a resurgence of nerves had started to flutter away in her stomach over sheer consideration of her impending meeting with a complete stranger. Of course, she knew it was all a part of the job. That only her relative inexperience stood between her, and the acquisition of her own informants, here and there. But regardless of that awareness, she could not seem to shake her lingering apprehension, as though she believed she were about to cross some invisible line between the known, and the unknown, and she was not entirely certain that she wished to see the end result.

Whether she was always enthralled with her current circumstances or not, there was still something to be said for maintaining the status quo…

"You're right. You are," Anathema confirmed then, effectively pulling Fiona out of her internal musings once again, and forcing her to direct blue eyes towards her partner's darker brown ones as she elaborated, "I think you're going to get more than you bargained for with this entire ordeal."

"Wow. That's—uncharacteristically vague of you—"

"Because you didn't let me finish."

"Right. Sorry. Go on."

"You remember me telling you about my great-great-great-great-great grandmother?"

"This is the witch?" Fiona inquired, stifling the mischievous grin that suddenly wanted to tug at the corners of her lips, and waiting for Anathema's almost immediate reply.

"She is. My mom always said powers like hers skipped generations all the time."

"So, you think that they might've landed on you."

"I didn't, at first," Anathema assured, something in her tone giving Fiona every reason to believe that the confession, such as it was, that she was about to give was a reluctant one, at best, "But every so often I get these—gut feelings—about things. And I think I might be getting one, now."

"About a meet with a confidential informant?"

"It's not an exact science, Fi. I just—I can't help but think this might change everything."

"Well thank you, Nostradamus. I'll file that away for consideration," Fiona quipped, sending her partner and friend a half-smile, before turning her attention back to the screen of her computer in time with the small ding that indicated an incoming message, "It's from Newt—"

"What does it say?"

"The results of the mass spec were—inconclusive. Wonderful."

"You think Newt could be overlooking something?" Anathema asked, aware of the almost immediate shake of the head Fiona gave in response, and yet choosing to press on, regardless, "Everyone's human, Fi."

"I know that. I do. But I don't think that qualification really applies, here."

"You think Newt is super-human?"

"He may not be, but his brain sure as hell is," Fiona replied, resting her head in her hands, and emitting a soft groan as she reconciled herself with the fact that perhaps Shadwell's informant truly was her last resort, "If the report says there's nothing, I think we're stuck."

"Is that a confession of losing hope, Detective Fell?" Anathema teased, grateful that her remark was met with a soft laugh from her partner as she had intended, instead of a reaction of offense, "I never would have thought it possible."

"Shut up."

"You know you love me—"

"And I don't think I'm the only one," Fiona added, noting the faint quirk to her partner's brow, and turning to face her directly once again in order to follow through with what she had promised Newt she would do the previous day, "Our resident super-human did mention wanting to show you something, if you had a moment."

"Really."

"Really really. And if you want my personal advice, I think you should do that sooner rather than later."

"And exactly why might that be?" Anathema questioned, fiddling with the straw of her drink once again, as though the task had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. Of course, she was accustomed to Fiona's seeming preoccupation with the idea of a relationship between herself, and the head of the forensics department, though that awareness was never quite enough to have her seeing the signs for herself. But before she could get too distracted by her own attempts to realize what everyone else in their department seemed to already think they knew, Anathema found her attention once again diverted back to Fiona, a soft snort escaping as she heard the obvious humor in her answering reply.

"Well, if you delay the inevitable enough, Ana, the poor thing will probably think it's because I didn't want to pass along his request, and I really don't think I could handle that on my conscience."

No matter what anyone else believed, Fiona would be damned if she were made to seem as though she would never follow through when she gave someone her word…

…

Later that evening, Fiona was seated in a corner booth of the little diner that Sergeant Shadwell had indicated as the usual location for his own former interludes with the man he had sent her to meet, her fingers absently drumming against the surface of the table, and belying the anxiousness that she felt about the entire ordeal. It was more than just a case of nerves; she knew that for a fact. But inasmuch as she knew that facing whatever it was that had her so out of sorts would likely be more beneficial than keeping it all locked away, Fiona could not bring herself to even begin to consider getting to the root of the problem right now, her pulse jumping for what felt like the hundredth time since her arrival as the soft tinkling of the bell above the diner's door drew her attention once again.

An elderly woman, and her husband. Not it, then…

Slumping back in the booth with a sigh, Fiona chose to entertain herself with the prospect of imagining what this informant would look like, rather than remain lost in her own anxiety and nerves, a soft snort of amusement escaping as she wondered if the man would be anything like Shadwell, himself. Regardless of the turn his own life had taken, the retired Sergeant spoke of the stranger as though he held a grudging sort of respect for who he was, and how he had chosen to survive, thus far. And that left Fiona with a very tentative perception of this particular man being almost as old as Shadwell, having found herself simply incapable of believing that her former mentor would have been likely to harbor such a feeling for anyone drastically younger.

The man was traditional, to say the least, and at times, she wasn't entirely certain how he had come to hold such seeming affection for herself and Anathema, in a field that had been dominated by men for so long it was still difficult to be taken seriously, more often than not.

With her brow furrowing at the thought, Fiona shifted just a bit on the seat of the booth so that one leg was crossed over the other at the knees, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her jeans as she struggled to maintain the air of casual disinterest that she felt would be necessary to get through this without making a fool of herself in the process. In so many ways, she was still so very new to the idea of being a detective at all, regardless of the level of her training leading up to this point that had proven she was capable of doing the job on her own. And, not for the first time, she found herself repeating the very first reaction she had received from her fiancé when she gave him the news of her promotion, her lips curving into a frown as though Gabriel were seated right beside her, saying the words all over again.

"You know, there's something to be said for moving too fast, Fi. I've seen plenty of women like you burn out in less than a year, and after that, they're never really the same."

She knew that she could not prove him right. She would not prove him right, even if it killed her. And that thought alone was perhaps what had her resisting the urge to flinch as soon as she heard the jingling of the bells above the diner's door once again, blue eyes drifting towards the source of the sound as though she were not about to jump right out of her skin.

Of course, as soon as she saw exactly who it was that had just come through the door, all hope of remaining unflappable rather rapidly disappeared.

To say anything other than that he was almost sinfully attractive would have been a lie, and in spite of everything that Fiona did to persuade herself to look away she simply—couldn't. It was as though she had simply frozen, incapable of looking anywhere but at the man who had just entered the diner, sunglasses still covering his eyes despite having no practical need for them now that he was inside. But instinct seemed to kick in at the last possible moment while the man glanced around the diner with the air of someone who was attempting to discern if anything of interest ever occurred there, prompting Fiona to glance down at her hands for the briefest of moments while a flush blazed upon her cheeks as she realized his gaze had landed upon her, and he had likely just caught her staring.

"Shit," She hissed, pressing herself back against the booth, and biting down on her lower lip in hopes that the distraction of the slight stinging pain would ease the burning of her cheeks. Another brief glance at the man in question informed her that he was now looking straight at her, an enigmatic half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth until he began walking toward her in earnest.

But walking wasn't really the right description for it, at all, and Fiona found that she had once again been nearly riveted in place, simply watching as the man sauntered her way. It was difficult to tell if he were actually looking at her, what with how the sunglasses he wore obstructed her view of his eyes. But before she had the chance to make any attempt at preparing herself for exactly what she would do if he was, she found that the man had come to a stop directly before her, that enigmatic smile still firmly in place as he regarded her for a moment in silence, before he spoke.

"Sorry I'm late—but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham," He began, sliding into the opposite side of the booth from where Fiona was seated, herself, apparently content to ignore her wide-eyed look of surprise as she scrambled around for the ability to form a coherent sentence for long enough to reply.

"I—I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said you know how it is on the A40 at Denham."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I—I do," Fiona acknowledged, her hands reaching forward to fiddle with an unused napkin that had been left on the table prior to her arrival as she tried, and failed, to rein in her embarrassment over having been caught so off guard, "Sorry, I—you're—you're Shadwell's—"

"Yeah. That's me."

"It's just—well, you're not exactly what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?" The man asked, something not all that different from genuine curiosity coloring his tone as he leaned back against the edge of the booth, one arm draped over the ledge while the other came to rest upon the table, mere inches from where the napkin Fiona had grabbed was, just moments before.

"Well—someone rather closer to Shadwell's age, I suppose."

"Sorry to disappoint, love. That's not me."

"Oh, no, I'm not disappointed," Fiona assured, flinching as she realized the potential implications behind what she had just said, and flushing once again as she took note of the slight twitch at the corner of her companion's lips in response, "I—what I mean to say is, this is—it's fine, Mister Crowley—"

"Just Crowley."

"Right. Did um—did Shadwell tell you anything about why we were—why we were meeting like this in the first place?"

"He did," The stranger—Crowley—confirmed, shifting just a bit, and seeming to remain unaware as the stretch of unbelievably long legs beneath the table caused the tip of his boot to brush against one of Fiona's crossed legs, for a moment, thus prompting her to flinch, and tuck her feet as close to her own side of the booth as she could, as a result, "Said you had a murder you couldn't solve?"

"That's the gist of it, I suppose," Fiona admitted, frowning at the rather blunt description of the problem, despite the fact that she knew full well it was absolutely true, "Did he—did he tell you anything more than that?"

"Shadwell's never been one for details, pet. You of all people should know that."

"Pet?"

"You don't like it?"

"It's—unusual," Fiona confessed, managing a faint smile of her own in spite of the way the apparent nickname caused her heart to do a strange little jerk within her chest. It was remarkably difficult, she thought, to keep herself on task when her companion continued to stray outside of the carefully organized image of him that she had built in her mind prior to seeing him in the flesh. In truth, she could not seem to distract herself from even the minutest detail of his appearance and demeanor, her teeth worrying at her lower lip for a moment as she caught herself spending a bit too much time absorbed in how effortlessly flame red hair fell to his shoulders, and moved on before he could take note of the fact, himself, if he hadn't already, "It doesn't matter."

"No?"

"No. Whatever you do or don't call me, I just—"

"You just what?"

"I just need to know if you had any—any idea who might have felt that murdering a young girl just as she was about to leave for college was a necessary thing."

"This girl have a name, pet?" Crowley probed, stifling an almost predatory grin at how the flush that had just passed from the young woman's cheeks only reappeared in response to the recurrence of the name that he had given her almost without a second thought. Though he would never admit to such a thing out loud, the girl was not exactly what he had expected, either, even in the face of Shadwell's description of her appearance. He was accustomed to a certain sense of dejection in the majority of the police he had the opportunity to come across, thus far, either through business such as this particular encounter, or something a little less on the up and up. But the woman Shadwell had described as something of a protégé of his was entirely the opposite, her anxious expression that she was so valiantly trying to hide seeming to indicate that, unlike many of her colleagues, she was driven to do everything within her power to get to the bottom of any case that passed across her desk…

And here he was, toying with her. Not that the task was all that easy to resist, since every so often, without her conscious awareness, the girl's lips would pull into something not all that far from a pout that had Crowley all but determined to see them do it again.

"She does. Elizabeth Thompson," Fiona finally managed, aware of her companion's keen observation of her every move, and squaring her shoulders as though in so doing she would stand any chance at appearing less flustered than she truly was, "Daughter of the—"

"The Thompsons, on the East side?"

"You know them?"

"Everybody knows the Thompsons, pet. Everybody who's anybody, at any rate."

"Are they—um—"

"Affiliated with anyone of a less than savory moral character?" Crowley finished, shifting once again to allow him to stretch just a bit until the act generated the desired pop of his spine, and he was able to relax once more, "You can say the words, you know. I think you'll find I'm not all that easy to offend."

"Forgive me. Next time I'll make sure to be less delicate."

"Oh pet, I doubt you're anything even remotely close to delicate."

Unable to stop the way in which her eyes flew wide at the comment, Fiona averted her gaze in an attempt to regain what little was left of her composure, her fingertips setting to the task of shredding the napkin she held into bits, in the process. She was entirely certain that her companion was just playing with her, at this point, rather like a cat might toy with a mouse before it dove in for the kill. But in spite of that realization, Fiona realized that the observation did not fill her with the amount of trepidation that she had anticipated, a shallow exhalation passing through her nose before she summoned the wherewithal to meet her companion's shaded gaze once more, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she replied.

"For Miss Thompson's sake, I should hope not. Is her family affiliated with any—gangs, or other criminal enterprises?"

"You really don't play around, do you?"

"In my line of work, Mister Crowley, if I played around, I would never get anything accomplished."

"Duly noted," Crowley acknowledged, more than a little intrigued by the sudden resolve that colored everything from the young woman's tone, to her posture seated across from him in the booth, her back suddenly straighter than it had been when he first arrived, even in spite of the reality of her insistence upon using a more formal approach to his given name, "And no, they're not. Not that I know of, anyway."

"Damn."

"Hoping for a different answer?"

"Well—yes," Fiona said, flexing her fingers just a bit as she realized she had effectively torn apart the last of the napkin in her grasp, and watching as the last of the pieces fluttered to land beside their predecessors upon the table, "Shadwell said—well, he said if anything went on in that part of town, then you—or, rather, your—people—would know of it."

"Just because I don't know the answer now, doesn't mean I can't do some digging to change that, you know."

"What?"

"I mean you didn't really think I was going to leave you hanging, did you?"

"Well—I mean, I certainly don't expect you to—"

"To make myself useful?" Crowley suggested, a short laugh giving proof to his amusement over Fiona's apparent doubts as they pertained to his ability to help, "Your doubt is simply inspiring, pet."

"I don't—I'm not doubting you!" Fiona protested, a huff of exasperation escaping as she registered Crowley's answering expression that was a mix of both skepticism and open amusement at her expense, "Well I'm not."

"Right."

"It's—I'm being entirely honest, here!"

"So am I," Crowley replied, noting the return of the faint pout that had so intrigued him from before, and choosing to use its appearance as a reason to shift his position until he was leaning forward with both elbows placed lightly upon the surface of the table between them, "Give me your phone."

"My—what?"

"Your phone, love. I don't have mine on me, at the moment, and if I'm going to be ferreting out more information for you, it may help to have a means of contacting you, no?"

"I—oh. Of course," Fiona began, suddenly abundantly grateful for the prospect of averting her gaze, even if only for a moment, to dig through her purse for the aforementioned device. Against her wishes, her hands had started to shake, the end result being to create a sort of muffled rustling sound as she attempted to persuade them to cooperate for long enough to do as she had been asked. It did not take long, she found, to locate her cell, nestled in the bottom of the purse, between her house keys, and her wallet. And, although some small part of her would have preferred a few more moments to settle her nerves, before meeting Crowley's gaze head on once more, Fiona forced herself to withdraw her phone, punch her passcode into the lock screen, and hand it over, her teeth digging into her lower lip again as soon as she realized the act had caused the tips of his fingers to graze her skin as a result, "Here—here you go, then."

A brief nod, and the smallest flashes of a grin were all that she received in response as Crowley took the proffered phone, and paused for just long enough to catch a glance at the photograph that served as the wallpaper for the home screen, only to quirk a brow and glance at Fiona once again.

"This your dad, then?"

"No, my—my fiancé," Fiona corrected, her lips twitching just a bit as she tried, and failed, to utterly suppress her amusement over the photograph of herself and Gabriel that had been taken not long after he proposed being mistaken as one of her, and her father, of all things, "Are you going to—send yourself a text, or something?"

"That's the plan."

"Well—shouldn't you be—getting to it? Rather than ogling my fiancé?"

"Trust me, pet, if I'm ogling someone, you'll know it," Crowley quipped, glancing up from the screen of the phone, albeit briefly, and finding himself pleased to note that the remark appeared to have caused his companion to flush once again, though she still seemed capable of returning his jest with one of her own.

"How comforting. I'll keep that in mind. Just so long as you actually give my phone back—"

"Pushy, aren't we?"

"No. I just—"

"You just what?"

"Never mind," Fiona relented, a sigh of complete resignation leaving her as she sat back in the booth, and watched in silence while her companion remained absorbed in the screen of her phone as he typed out whatever message he was sending to himself in order to have her number available in his own device, whenever he actually returned to it. It surprised her, she had to admit, that someone of his profession, such as it was, would ever actually travel without a phone on his person, though that was far from the first thing that had startled her about the man Sergeant Shadwell had arranged for her to meet. And although some small part of her was rather more than intrigued at unravelling exactly why this man had so effectively defied all of her previous expectations, Fiona found her attention abruptly brought back to the here and now as she realized that Crowley was handing her phone back to her, the fact that this time, he seemed to be taking extra care to ensure their skin did not make contact causing her to frown for a moment until she realized he was asking her another question, and she had missed it, entirely.

"I—sorry, I didn't—I didn't catch that."

"I said I'll just send off a message if I find anything," Crowley repeated, aware that the woman seated across from him appeared absolutely mortified at the prospect of having to ask him to repeat himself, whereas for his part, he was only genuinely amused, "We can uh—figure out when and where to meet, from there?"

"Right. Good. Please do," Fiona agreed, watching as her companion slid out of the booth and towered above her, his hands shifting to rest inside his trouser pockets as he glanced down at her through his dark glasses, an unreadable expression upon his features for a moment before he replied.

"Never did catch your name, pet—"

"Fiona. Fiona Fell."

"Right. Well—Fiona," Crowley began, the slight emphasis he gave her name, as though testing the feel of it on his tongue forcing Fiona to squirm just a bit, while her heart resumed its erratic pattern of beats against her ribcage, "A pleasure, of course. Talk soon?"

Before she could summon anything save for a vague nod of acknowledgement, Fiona found that her companion had already turned, and started to head towards the door, her trembling hands clutching at her phone like a lifeline while she once again fell prey to the desire to simply watch him go. Without the fear of him catching her in the act, she found she was fully able to appreciate the fit of the long jacket he wore, along with the way his body seemed to move with a fluid sort of grace. But, all too soon for her liking, the tinkling of the bells above the door were signifying his departure, the backward glance he gave before leaving entirely causing her to dart her eyes downward while her teeth chewed at her lip for what had come to feel like the hundredth time since they had met.

She would be damned if she ever admitted it aloud, but something about her encounter with the man had unsettled her, and although she knew it may do her more harm than good, some small part of her was all but determined to repeat the experience, if for no other reason than to find out why…

…


	4. Sushi and Conversation

The soft tinkling of the bell above the bookshop door alerted the youthful looking dark-haired man to the presence his hands halting in the task of rearranging the book display in the corner of the little shop, although he did not look away from his job, entirely. He had just about finished, and even he had to admit he was proud of the end result, and so instead of stopping completely, he settled instead for addressing the newcomer from his current position, instead, his voice jovial, but firm as he attempted to shoo them away.

"Sorry, mate—we're actually closed right now."

"Well hello to you, too, Simon"

"Fi! Wasn't expecting you this evening," Simon remarked, now officially abandoning the rest of the books that remained on the stool near his ladder, in favor of jogging over towards the door to envelop the newcomer with a warm embrace, "It feels like it's been ages."

"It's only been a week, Si."

"Right, so like I said. Ages."

"Is that your attempt at giving me a guilt trip?" Fiona asked, one brow arching as she pulled back from Simon's embrace, and failed to entirely suppress the twitch of her lips in response to his ready nod of confirmation, "Wow. Good to know where I stand, I guess."

"I use the techniques that work, Fi."

"You really think that works?"

"Fair point," Simon acknowledged, sharing a laugh with the young woman that had been nothing short of a sister to him, ever since he was eight years old. Two years her senior, he had taken an almost immediate liking to her as soon as Aziraphale had mentioned bringing a second child into their home. And from that moment on, the two of them had been nearly inseparable, after Simon had managed to worm his way through the instinctive barriers the six year old had placed around her heart after being left to live a life on the streets once her father was jailed, and her mother disappeared—

She had been more than a little reluctant to let anyone in, at first, but after a while, she had decided to trust, and the two of them had been close ever since.

"You up for a little dinner, then?"

"I could eat," Fiona admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she watched Simon step around her, and head towards the back of the store almost immediately after she had given him her reply, "Where are you going?"

"Getting Zee, where else?" Simon informed, sending Fiona a smile over one shoulder, before disappearing into the back room such that only his voice could be heard, muffled though it was, "Zee? Fancy a break? Fiona's just popped by."

"Oh, did she?"

Smiling to herself in response to the rather obvious enthusiasm that made itself so apparent in her guardian's voice, such that she could sense it even without having seen his face, Fiona strolled over to the books Simon had been organizing, her fingertips trailing over the worn bindings that time spent growing up in this very book shop had made as familiar as old friends. She could remember reading every single one of them at some point or another, particularly on rainy afternoons when the idea of venturing out of doors was simply too inconvenient. And before she could fully stop herself, she had plucked one of the books from the display, opening it to the precise middle, where the page still bore the indent that came about after she had folded it over to mark her place.

Oblivious to the muted sounds of conversation going on in the bookshop's back room, Fiona allowed her eyes to stray down the familiar words on the page, instead, her feet absently carrying her over towards the ladder Simon had been using to reach the higher shelves so that she could take a seat upon one of the rungs. Within mere moments, she found herself forgetting all of the events of the day, where before she had been all but incapable of thinking of anything else. But of course, just as soon as she had managed to turn the page so that she might continue to read one of her favorite passages in the tale, itself, the sound of soft laughter and approaching footsteps effectively garnered her attention, her lips curving into a smile once again as she heard Aziraphale's honestly predictable remark as it pertained to her chosen activity to pass the time until Simon returned with him in tow.

"Tristan and Isolde again, my dear?"

"Did you really expect anything different?"

"No. No, I suppose I didn't," Aziraphale admitted, waiting for Fiona to place the book back upon the stool, and stand from her position perched on the rung of the ladder so that he could pull her into a welcoming embrace, "I've missed you, dear."

"I've missed you too, Zee. So much," Fiona replied, almost automatically recognizing the slip, though she could never have taken it back in time to stop her guardian from placing strong hands upon her shoulders to nudge her gently back until he could look her in the eye, "What?"

"What do you think?"

"Honestly? No idea."

"Really? Because I think you have a very good idea," Aziraphale countered, lifting a hand from Fiona's shoulder to brush a stray tendril of dark hair behind her ear, and frowning a bit as he realized the act had prompted an almost sad frown to pull at her lips in response, "You know you are welcome here, any time—"

"I know."

"And you know if you ever need some time away, you have only to ask."

"I do," Fiona confirmed, forcing herself to meet Aziraphale's gaze head-on, in spite of the fact that she knew full well doing so would only allow him to more easily read every emotion as it flickered across her face. She had never been very adept at hiding her feelings, even when she was a little girl. And although some small part of her was more than a little reluctant to come clean regarding the true reason behind her apparent discontent, Fiona also knew that trying to keep it a secret would perhaps be more detrimental than simply facing the music, so to speak.

After all, with both Aziraphale and Simon around, it was not as though she really stood a chance at hiding her feelings for very long, anyway…

"Can we—could we maybe talk about everything while we eat?"

"Of course, dear," Aziraphale agreed, somewhat mollified by the idea of Fiona eventually coming clean about whatever it was that troubled her, such that he was capable of relinquishing his hold upon her shoulders so that he could grab his jacket from the coatrack, instead, "Where would you like to go?"

"How would the two of you feel about sushi?"

"I could work with that," Simon confessed, stepping forward to link his arm through Fiona's to lead her through the shop door, while Aziraphale lingered behind for just long enough to ensure it was securely locked behind them. Within moments, the trio was making their way down the busy Soho sidewalk, Simon and Fiona still walking arm in arm, while Aziraphale followed along not far behind them. It would have been a lie to say that even this small moment of togetherness was not what they all needed, in one way or another, the muted conversation that carried on between them while they walked bearing the sort of ease that only came about through prolonged exposure and companionship. And regardless of whether or not Fiona was still a bit more than apprehensive over the idea of disclosing everything that she had done since last seeing her family, she was still overwhelmingly relieved to simply have this time together, in the first place.

Engaged or not, Aziraphale and Simon would always be her priority, and Fiona would be damned if she didn't make sure they knew that, every step of the way.

…

"Well that was absolutely scrumptious," Aziraphale hummed appreciatively, blue eyes closing for a moment as though to savor the last of the sushi that had passed through his lips, before he placed his napkin back upon the table, and eyed the two young people seated at the table with him after a small beat of silence, "I do apologize for making the two of you wait so long for me to finish."

"Not a problem by me. Just means I can drink more wine."

"What he said," Fiona agreed, lifting her own glass of the sweet red liquid in a mock salute, and taking a sip before replacing it upon the table to go on, "How do you always know the best flavors to go along with whatever dish you're eating at the time?"

"Years and years of practice, my dear."

"Is that your way of confessing to being old?"

"Simon!"

"What? It's only an innocent question," Simon protested, dodging out of the way of Fiona's retaliatory swipe at his side, and laughing as the act caused her to put on an exaggerated pout, in response, "Maybe you should give a bloke a chance to answer, Fi."

"And maybe you shouldn't tease him so much," Fiona quipped, nudging Simon's shin with the toe of her boot, and sending him what she believed to be an angelic grin as his blue eyes narrowed in response, "He could just make you foot the bill for your own food, you know."

"Zee would never do that."

"That's all you know."

"Regrettably, Fiona, I do believe in this case, he's actually quite correct," Aziraphale cut in, smiling warmly at the familiar antics of his two companions, and shifting just a bit in his seat so that he could reach for his billfold where it resided in his trouser pockets before going on, "The entire point of this evening was that it was going to be my treat—"

"Should you really spoil him for misbehaving, though?"

"He means well, and I think you know that, my dear. And I think you are the one we should be more concerned with getting to talk, on this occasion."

"Right. I was kind of hoping you might forget about that."

"Never going to happen, dear."

"I should have known," Fiona sighed, leaning forward to place one elbow upon the surface of the table so that she could simultaneously lean her chin upon the palm of her hand, as well, "You're really going to make me come clean, huh?"

"I believe I would be remiss, and a poor excuse for a guardian if I did not."

"You could never be a poor excuse for a guardian even if you tried, Zee."

"Well, be that as it may, it still troubles me to think you might ever feel as though you would be better served remaining silent about something that bothered you," Aziraphale admitted, folding his hands in his lap, and regarding the young woman that had become like a daughter to him over the years with an expression that was nothing short of concerned, "I do have a bit of a knack for reading your moods, you may recall."

"How could I forget?" Fiona remarked, the fingers of her free hand trailing over the table top while her eyes tracked the movements as though they were the most intriguing thing in the world, "I guess it's just—this case we're working—no matter what we do, Ana and I can't seem to make any headway and it's starting to get to me, I suppose."

"Can you—tell us anything about it?" Aziraphale inquired, his tone cautious, as he knew full well that when it came to her line of work, there were certain boundaries that Fiona simply could not cross, no matter how close they had always been to one another, "If you can't, of course, I would completely understand—"

"No, I—I think I can tell you a little bit."

"Very well then, my dear. Whenever you are ready."

"It—there's this young woman that's been murdered," Fiona began, aware of the almost immediate tension that had taken over both of the men she sat with, and pushing herself to elaborate before either one of them could fully give in to their obvious concern, "Her family lives over on the East side of town, and they're just—we are really desperate to find out who did this."

"No leads yet, then?" Simon interjected, downing the last of his wine, and replacing the glass upon the table, before returning his attention towards Fiona just in time to see the small shake of the head she gave in response, "Nothing at all? Even with your little miracle worker downstairs?"

"Nope. Newt couldn't find anything, and I know for a fact he was more than thorough. So—so Ana and I have just been scratching our heads, cooling our heels waiting for something to make itself obvious."

"Is there no one else you could ask?" Aziraphale suggested, more than a little concerned at how dejected Fiona appeared, sitting across from him with a furrow marring her brow as though it had been etched there, permanently, "None of the other detectives, for example, or—or someone else?"

"Well, that's just it. I—I have asked someone else, it's just I'm not too sure he'll be able to shed any light on anything, either."

"He? Who is—he?" Simon questioned, curiosity lacing his tone as he tilted his head to the side to regard his foster sister, and almost immediately took note of the light flush that had come to adorn her cheeks in response to the question that was, for all intents and purposes an innocent one, at least to him. For a moment or two he almost thought she would refuse to answer him, her eyes remaining fixed upon whatever idle patterns that her fingers were tracing upon the table's surface, rather than meeting his own gaze, head on. But before he could make any attempt at prodding her once again, Simon found the effort to be futile, something unreadable passing across her features before she exhaled in a rush and forced herself to speak.

"He's—he's just one of Shadwell's old informants. Apparently, he's connected to one of the prominent gangs on that side of town, so if anyone knew of what had happened, it would—it would be him."

"And did he? Know anything of what happened, I mean," Aziraphale prompted, aware of the soft sigh that escaped Fiona's parted lips as a result of the inquiry, and reaching forward to cover her hand with his own such that she was forced to stop tracing patterns with her fingers, and look him in the eyes, instead before she replied in the negative.

"No. Not at the moment, anyway. But he—he said he'd call if he found anything, so I guess I just have to wait. Again."

"He's got your number, though."

"Yes, Simon, he does. That's kind of the entire point of having a confidential informant—so they can get in touch with you, and you with them, if needed."

"Alright, alright, no need to get so defensive," Simon teased, watching with a faint grin as the flush upon Fiona's cheeks only deepened, and not even bothering to relent when he caught sight of Aziraphale's cautionary expression as though he truly thought that would stop him from teasing the young woman beside him if anything less than the world ending came to pass, "Unless of course you like him."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I said unless you like him," Simon repeated, chuckling openly at Fiona's answering roll of the eyes, his amusement only increasing as she reached out to nudge at his shoulder with her free hand that was not still clutched in Aziraphale's, and only gave proof to his suspicion as a result, "You do, you like him."

"Shut up, Si."

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery—"

"Thank you, Mister Peanut Gallery, for your wise insight," Fiona quipped, unable to completely tamp down on her own amusement, even in spite of the aggravation that flared in response to being forced to consider whether or not Simon's teasing held even the smallest grain of truth to it at all, "But you're wrong."

"Right. Sure I am."

"You are. You're just in denial."

"I do believe we are getting rather off the point," Aziraphale said then, noting the grateful smile that Fiona sent his way in response to his decision to come to her aid, and returning it with a small grin of his own before going on, "So, this man will be—contacting you, if he comes up with anything useful?"

"That's what he said, yes."

"Will you have to meet with him again, at that point?"

"I imagine so," Fiona informed, effecting a small shrug, before gently extracting her hand from beneath Aziraphale's larger one so that she could grab for her wine, and take another sip to settle her suddenly inexplicable nerves, "All part of the job, I suppose."

"Yes, but—meeting with known criminals—and on your own, besides—it all just seems a little bit—much."

"Zee, it's what I signed up for. Literally every single one of us does it," Fiona assured, unable to resist the warm surge of affection that spread through her frame in response to the obvious concern Aziraphale seemed to be harboring over the entire affair. She had always known he was apprehensive about her choice of career, and as it had always been a very different sort of reaction than Gabriel's had been, she had never minded, save for hoping that his feelings would not give him too many sleepless nights as a result. His own thoughts aside, though, Aziraphale had always made it abundantly clear that he supported her, so long as her chosen path made her happy, and it was that fact alone that had her managing a small smile for his benefit, before downing the rest of her wine, and forcing herself to speak once again, if for no other reason than to promise him that she was at no more risk than anyone else in the field.

"I can take care of myself; I promise. If this guy tries anything, then I'll just—"

"Pin him to the floor like you did to me after you found out that I had nicked your diary when you were in seventh grade?"

"Yes. Exactly like that."

"Well then, I think it's safe to say our resident bad-ass can handle things without us worrying," Simon surmised, sending Fiona what was so clearly meant to be a conspiratorial wink, before turning his attention towards a still doubtful Aziraphale to assure him as best he could, "I had bruises for days, remember? Safe to say this guy'll probably come out of the deal worse than that, seeing as she's allowed to carry a gun—"

"I'm not going to shoot him, Simon."

"What if he deserves it?"

"He doesn't," Fiona persisted, stifling a laugh in spite of her own better judgment, and rolling her eyes at Simon, before turning her attention towards Aziraphale in hopes of encouraging him to realize that, at least to the best of her knowledge thus far, she was utterly confident in her feelings about the man they were discussing, "I'll be absolutely fine, Zee. Cross my heart and hope to—well—not die, I suppose."

"I can't help it, Fiona. I worry for you. For both of you," Aziraphale confessed, aware of the softening in the young woman's features, and the simultaneous scoff of amusement Simon allowed before he cut in, with a laugh and that smile that let everyone know he was completely at ease with himself, in just about every way.

"I'm an artist, Zee, I doubt I'm going to be risking imminent death just by stepping outside the front door."

"That doesn't mean I cannot be concerned, either way."

"I live with you, you know. If I'm such a damsel in distress, what does that make you?"

"Co—collateral damage, I suppose."

A beat of silence passed between the trio at the table, then, before they all broke into laughter at precisely the same time, the sound only broken by the shrill beeping of Fiona's cell from inside her purse. Frowning a bit as she reached in to grab it, and suppressing a tiny thrill of apprehension as she wondered for a moment if Crowley had come across something that might prove useful to her case this early in the game, the young woman soon found herself biting back the sting of disappointment as she realized it was only her fiancé, and not the enigmatic confidential informant that Sergeant Shadwell had sent her to meet, after all.

"Hello?"

"Babe—where are you?" Gabe's voice replied, the sound of only partially masked irritation causing her to frown as she mouthed his name at Aziraphale and Zee, before she was turning away from their table, and bringing her free hand up to cover her other ear in hopes that it would dull the surrounding sounds of the restaurant so that she could hear a bit better, "You were supposed to meet me at the bar—after you saw that CI—"

"Shit," Fiona hissed, shifting her free hand so that it lifted to massage at her temple, and biting at her lower lip for a moment before deciding that honesty about where she was seemed to be a better option than trying to concoct a plausible lie, "I—I'm so sorry, Gabe, I wasn't thinking, and I went to Zee's shop."

"So, you're there, now?"

"Well technically, I'm at a sushi restaurant at the moment—"

"Jesus, Fiona, you promised."

"I know. I know I did, and I'm sorry. But today was just—it was rough, Gabe. I just wanted my family."

"I'm your family," Gabriel hissed through the phone, the nature of his words giving Fiona a very obvious picture of the stony expression, and clenched jaw that he likely wore as a result of her inadvertent faux pas, "You just seem to be conveniently forgetting that."

"That's not what this is."

"It's the only way I can see it, Fi. I'm not really sure what you expect me to think, here."

"Look, can we just—can we talk about this at home? When are you leaving the bar?" Fiona inquired, silently cursing the way she was practically begging Gabe for the opportunity to speak to him face to face, when truthfully she would have given everything she had to simply spend the remainder of the night with Aziraphale and Simon, instead. She knew, of course, that such a thing would not be possible, almost as soon as the thought had entered her mind. But that did not stop her from wishing for it with all her might, regardless, her tongue darting out to wet her lips for a moment as she prepared to speak again, only to have the effort stalled as Gabriel's voice replied from the other end of the line, instead.

"Maybe an hour or two from now. We just ordered."

"Right. Well, I'll—I'll see you at home then?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Fi, you'll see me at home," Gabe agreed, a sigh making itself apparent, and giving Fiona every reason to believe he was now pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger in the same motion, "You sure you won't stop by? I could get you some of that grilled chicken you always liked."

"I'm fine, Gabe. I think I just want to finish up here, and go home," Fiona said, leaning back in her own chair, and stifling her disappointment that what had started out as such a relaxing evening in the wake of everything that had happened earlier that day had turned so sour in mere moments, "And I really am sorry for forgetting, you know."

"I know. See you soon. Love you."

"Yeah. You too."

Hanging up the call, and stowing her phone safely in her purse once again, Fiona managed a look at her two companions, and did her best to force a smile, the gesture apparently not even close to holding water as far as both Aziraphale and Simon were concerned. They had always known her, better even than she knew herself, and so it truly was no real surprise that they had seen through the nature of her phone call mere moments after it had come to a close. But regardless of that awareness, Fiona still held onto the foolish hope that she could dissuade them from reading too much into it, her posture straightening as she regarded them both for a moment of silence before breaking it to assure them everything was, in fact, just fine.

"Apparently I need to start a day planner," She mused, exhaling and rolling her shoulders a bit to relieve the sudden tension that had take root there, before going on "I'll be forgetting my own head, next."

"Ha-ha. Very convincing."

"Simon—"

"No, I'm serious," Her foster brother insisted, one dark brow lifted in obvious skepticism as he regarded her for a moment or two as though questioning himself over how best to proceed, "The Beefsteak doing okay, then? Or is he in another one of his moods?"

"Don't call him that," Fiona protested, unable to fully summon the disapproving frown that she wanted to give Simon for his persistence in using such a nickname to describe her fiancé, and his future brother-in-law, as she had been far more preoccupied in trying to avoid allowing the soft snort that would have given proof to her own reluctant amusement at bay, instead, "It's not—he's not in a mood."

"Could have fooled me."

"Well, he's not."

"Perhaps we would be better suited taking this particular conversation back to the shop," Aziraphale interjected, only to find that Fiona was shaking her head, and already moving to get up from her chair at the same time.

"I can't, Zee. I'm sorry. I really just—I should just get home."

"Well, perhaps Simon can walk you back to your car."

"No. No, really, I'll be fine on my own. You two just—just have a good rest of the night, okay?" Fiona pleaded, silently cursing how her voice seemed to crack as the prospect of parting from her family caused regret and longing to war with one another in the center of her chest, "I'll call you soon."

"You'd better," Simon called after her, the slight concern in his own words causing Fiona's stomach to twist, though somehow, she still summoned the wherewithal to continue walking towards the restaurant's door, regardless.

"Don't think I won't turn up on the doorstep of that ridiculous mansion your fiancé's parents unloaded on you at some point in the very near future, if you don't."

Whether she particularly enjoyed the idea of heading home, or not, Fiona would have been a fool to pretend that Simon's intended threat had not made at least the shadow of a smile cross her face, the apprehension she felt over facing her fiancé lessening just a bit as she reminded herself that she was not in this alone…

…


	5. Morning After

After having deposited her car keys in the small bowl on the table by the front door, leaving her purse on the kitchen counter, and pilfering a glass of wine before making her way to the master bathroom upstairs, it was not long before Fiona was settled in the rather obscenely large bathtub, with bubbles rising to just below the tops of her shoulders, the now half-empty glass of wine situated on the tiling beside her while she leaned back against the edge of the tub, and shut her eyes with a slow sigh. She still had the house to herself, just about an hour after she had initially returned, and although some small part of her was curious over the idea of what might be delaying Gabriel's return, it would have been a lie to pretend that she was not at least somewhat grateful for a bit more time to herself, her hand reaching out of the bubbly water to grab for her wine glass once more, and bring it to her lips with a practiced sort of ease.

Savoring the liquid's fruity taste, the young woman spent a moment simply allowing the pressure of the water jets at her back to ease the tension from her sore muscles, her mind slowly starting to unravel its carefully laid barriers she had erected to keep her memories of the days' events at bay. She had time, now. Time to think over everything that had transpired, without risk of imminent interruption, or provoking too much concern in anyone around her. And so, she settled back against the tub once again with wine glass still in hand, her blue eyes roaming over the star-shaped patterns etched into the tiles of the ceiling as she allowed herself to become completely immersed in her thoughts.

She knew that soon, she and Anathema would have to return to the Thompson's home, to give them whatever they had managed to scrape together thus far in regards to their daughter's murder. It was what was expected, particularly in high-profile cases such as this, considering the rather sizeable amount of money that the parents had offered through the media in return for anyone coming forward with information about their daughter's death. But no matter how she tried to rationalize that the Thompsons were nice people—that they wouldn't fault her, or her partner, for having nothing to show for their efforts save for inconclusive reports thus far—Fiona could not help but chastise herself, regardless, her fingers tightening around the stem of the wine glass for a moment as she shifted in the tub until one of the water jets hit just at the center of that spot on her right shoulder that always seemed to bear most of her tension whenever she had allowed herself to get worked up.

Groaning a bit as the water pressure buffeted against her skin, Fiona replaced the wine glass upon the tiling just at the outer edge of the bathtub so that she could sink both hands beneath the water once more without obstruction. Placing them, palms flat, on the bottom of the tub, she simply focused upon remaining in place for a moment, her teeth digging into her lower lip while the water jet massaged the stiffness that had taken up residence beneath the skin of her shoulder. Where, before, the act had always eventually given her the results she needed, this time, the soreness seemed all but resistant to depart, no matter what she tried to remedy it, herself. And although she knew that dwelling on that fact would not do her any good at all, Fiona found herself all but powerless to resist, her left hand shifting to attempt adding the pressure of her fingers to that of the water jet, but to no avail. A resigned sigh left her as she shifted once again, allowing herself to reach for the wine glass on the tiling so that she could down the rest of its contents in a few meager swigs. And it was then that she realized she had left the bottle on the kitchen counter alongside her purse, the recollection provoking another low groan as she abandoned the now empty glass once again and sank back beneath the bubbles until the water rose to ghost against the bottom of her chin.

Without the prospect of more wine to dull her senses, Fiona settled back into the chaotic nature of her jumbled thoughts, the guilt she felt over having absolutely nothing to show to the family of the murdered girl resuming the act of gnawing at her insides until she could practically feel the churning of her stomach in response. After running out of options in terms of what Newt's usual exhaustive resources could come up with, she was forced to realize that she was now completely at the mercy of a total stranger to help her along in solving the case. And, before she could fully stop herself, Fiona found that she was all but praying that the man Shadwell had referred her to came up with something useful, her thoughts jumbling around for a moment in the wake of her shock that she had so quickly found herself utterly reliant upon someone she was not exactly sure could be described as dependable, until they settled upon the startling consideration of whether or not he would be capable of relieving the tension that seemed to dwell in the muscle of her shoulder like a rather stubborn spider tucked up in its web on the corner of someone's porch.

No. No, she absolutely could not be thinking of Crowley like—like that. She just couldn't.

Shaking herself at how easy it was to consider the repetition of even the brief sensation of his hand grazing against her own that had come about when she had given him her phone, Fiona shivered in spite of herself, her mind still clinging to the memory as though determined to replay it over and over again. She would have been a fool to pretend that she hadn't felt a jolt at the contact, just as she would have been lying to say that she had not felt the smallest hints of disappointment over how Crowley had carefully avoided making contact again when he handed her phone back. But that fact notwithstanding she knew it was still more foolish to be sitting here, neck deep in bubbles and warm water with the slightest buzz from the wine muddying her thoughts, considering exactly what it might feel like to have those long fingers pressing soothing circles into the skin of her shoulder, instead of just the waterjet situated at her back.

"Stop!" She hissed to herself, pulling away from where her back had been leaning against the surface of the tub, the sound of sloshing water that came about in response to her sudden movement effectively corralling her thoughts as nothing else had been able to do, up to that point. For a moment or two, she simply sat there, the tendrils of hair that had escaped from the messy bun she wore dripping rivulets of water down the now exposed skin of her back, while her heart racketed around inside her ribcage. But before she could calm herself sufficiently, while a sudden blaze of a headache pounded away at her temples, Fiona found herself startling once again, this time as a result of an unexpected voice breaking the silence of the bathroom to tease her without mercy.

"Funny, I thought we were just getting started."

"Gabriel," Fiona breathed, one hand pressing against her chest as though she thought that in so doing, she could somehow stop the rapid thundering of her heart. Something in the way he was looking at her was almost predatory, the effect causing her skin to prickle with gooseflesh, despite being still mostly emerged in warm water and bubbles. And before she could fully stop herself, Fiona was shrinking back against the far end of the bathtub, her arms drawing up around her torso in a gesture that was inexplicably protective, as she gathered the wherewithal to speak once again, "You startled me."

"If I had known you were going to do this, I'd have let Sandalphon foot the bill himself, and come home an hour ago, babe."

"I didn't know I was going to do this until I was—already doing it."

"Well it's a good thing for you I brought up the wine," Gabriel supplied, jiggling the bottle that Fiona had only just noticed was clutched in his right hand, while his left held another glass that he placed, along with the bottle, beside the empty one she had abandoned a while ago, before going on, "That tub have room for one more?"

"Not if you're still clothed."

Wincing as she realized her remark, intended to be off-putting, had only caused her fiancé's brows to rise while he sent her a suggestive wink, Fiona eyed Gabriel as carefully as she could without coming off as openly hostile, her teeth chewing at her lower lip while he closed the distance between where he stood, and where she remained rooted in pace in the bubbly water, bending at the waist so that one hand could tangle in the hair she had knotted up into a bun while the other slipped below the water to land upon her knee. Focused upon the sole act of remaining still, despite the flinch that wanted so badly to break free that it caused her entire body to tense, Fiona was startled when she discovered Gabriel had used her momentary distraction to lean down until he could mouth at her earlobe. She shivered at the contact, and winced as Gabriel clearly interpreted the act as leave to continue, an alternating path of nips and open-mouthed caresses trailing down the skin of her jawline as a result. And before she could reconcile herself to exactly where this evening appeared to be going, far faster than she could stop it, Fiona felt her body go absolutely rigid as the hand that had been at her knee moved until it was poised just exactly there, beneath the water, probing fingers causing her to swallow stiffly as Gabriel pulled back with a devilish gleam in his dark eyes, and she did what she could to coerce her expression into something that wasn't utterly horrified as she realized the implications behind his next words with a jolt, and the renewed frantic pounding of her heart.

"I think I can work with that. I was getting rather tired of this bloody suit, anyway."

So much for a bit more time on her own to corral her wayward thoughts…

…

The following morning, Fiona clutched the travel mug of coffee as though it were a lifeline as she made her way through the front doors of the Soho police precinct, Gabriel at her side with a hand resting lightly against the small of her back. She could honestly say she almost felt grateful for the contact, particularly as she had been so distracted in the wake of the events of the previous evening that she had not considered the prospect of being subjected to the likely interrogation that Anathema would have concocted about her meet with Shadwell's informant until they had pulled into the car park nearby, and it had come crashing over her like a tidal wave. But now, faced with the reality of having already stepped through the front doors, Fiona could do nothing save for manage what she hoped would be a steadying sip of coffee as she recognized the familiar flyaway dark hair of her partner bouncing in the slight breeze generated by the open door at her back while the woman in question headed towards them in the flesh, a sly grin on her face as she moved, until she caught sight of the fact that Fiona was not, in fact, alone.

"Gabriel."

"Anathema. Always a pleasure," Gabriel remarked, the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth never coming close to reaching his eyes as he regarded the woman stood before him with a look just shy of open disdain, "Making an early morning of it, then?"

"I show up at this time every morning, Dumas," Anathema retorted, her intentional use of Gabriel's surname causing Fiona's mouth to twitch as she struggled to fight off a grin, ducking her head down to feign an obscene amount of interest in her coffee, instead, "Though it seems you're a bit later than usual, this morning—"

"Got a bit distracted in the shower. You have a problem with that?"

"I do if it means you're exhausting my partner before the day even begins."

"Okay!" Fiona exclaimed, stepping away from Gabriel's hand upon her back, and moving to stand at Anathema's side instead, regardless of the burn of the flush on her cheeks, "Well, I think Ana and I should really get to it. See you later?"

"Assuming you remember we're both supposed to leave early tonight," Gabriel replied, one dark brow lifting as Fiona's skeptical expression prompted him to nudge her just a bit closer to recollection with his ensuing words, "Dinner? At the club?"

"With your parents. Of course. Yeah, I'll—I'm leaving early."

"Fiona—"

"I promise. I am. I'll have Ana kick me out if I need to," Fiona assured, somehow summoning a smile amidst the exasperation she felt over having nearly forgotten another event she had planned for the second day in a row. In truth, she could not fully explain why she had suddenly become so forgetful of anything that did not have a direct relevance to her work, though she knew without a doubt that Gabriel would form his own conclusions, whether they were anywhere close to being the truth, or not. And half in an effort to waylay such conclusions for as long as she could, Fiona decided to act on impulse, stepping away from Anathema and closing the distance between herself and Gabriel so that she could lean up on tiptoe to press her lips against his own, secretly pleased at the startled grunt her act provoked before she rocked back on her heels and attempted to give him what might pass for a flirty wink in spite of the slight tremor of doubt that nudged at the back of her mind in response.

"See you later, Gabe."

Before he could do or say anything in return, Fiona turned on her heel and headed back towards her partner, discreetly ignoring the rather pointed look she was giving her as a result of her latest rash act, and choosing instead to link her arm through Anathema's so that she could drag her off towards the door that would lead to their office. She knew she would be questioned about this, every bit as much, if not more than she would be questioned about her brief interlude with one Anthony J. Crowley. But even that mildly embarrassing prospect was not entirely enough to deter Fiona from the act of rather determinedly dragging her partner through the glass doors that would lead to the familiar and affectionately named 'hell-hole' that they spent the majority of their time in when they were not out in the field, her free hand lifting the travel mug of coffee to her lips once again for another steadying sip before she bumped her shoulders against Anathema's while she spoke.

"So—ready to get to work?"

"Oh, am I ever."

Uncomfortable questions or no, Fiona could never have denied that the idea of settling into the ease with which she and Anathema had always worked together was far more reassuring than any touch meant to convey comfort that Gabriel could provide, a faint smile dawning at the edge of her mouth as she skirted around her partner's desk to head for her own, depositing her purse and her coffee mug on its surface in the same motion, before taking a seat and firing up the computer, as well.

They had a job to do, after all, and she would be damned if her own internal conflict put that in jeopardy in any way.

…

"You're late," A gruff voice groused, the sound provoking a roll of the eyes from behind dark shades that did their job with valiant aplomb, and masked the gesture entirely, "Out all night partying, then?"

"Why? You jealous?" Crowley quipped, signature half-smirk firmly in place as he sauntered into the aptly named 'war-room', and plunked himself down in a chair just to the immediate right of the one planted at the head of the battered old table that took up most of the real estate the room had to offer.

"The day I'm jealous of you is the day the world burns to ash around our ears."

"You astonish me, Hastur. I never thought you had such a vivid imagination."

"Very funny, ha-ha. Joke all you like," Hastur retorted, glowering at the younger man that was now sprawled in the chair at the righthand side of the table as though the idea of sitting properly had never even crossed his mind, "You were supposed to be here hours ago."

"Overslept."

"Do you think that excuse will pass when he gets here?"

"Seeing as he's not here yet, I don't see as I'll have to tell him at all," Crowley remarked, tilting his chair back so that it balanced on its two back legs for the sole purpose of knowing it annoyed his companion, and prompted a dark scowl to etch itself upon his features as he shambled over to the chair opposite him, and took a seat, himself, "You know, you seem in particularly foul spirits this afternoon. What gives?"

"Don't patronize me, Crowley. I know what you're about."

"And he has powers of perception as yet unseen as well. You really are on a roll this morning, Hastur."

"You know, just because you're in his favor, now, doesn't mean you will be there for very long," The older man advised, digging in the pocket of his grimy beige jacket, and fishing around for a moment until he withdrew a packet of cigarettes and a lighter with an air of some relief. Regarding his companion from across the table for a moment in silence, Hastur allowed dark eyes to glance over the youthful features of the man before him—the unruly hair somehow still managing to look artfully disarrayed as it fell to his shoulders, the slight curl of the lip to match the skeptically raised brow, and the enigmatic eyes that were invisible behind the protection of circular sunglasses while long limbs splayed in a manner that was almost impossible both above and below the table's surface—but before he could consider anything further to say to the man he so clearly thought of as an adversary, the sound of footsteps effectively diverted his attention, his gaze snapping towards the door of the war-room as a tall man in black entered, and glanced at the two occupants for a moment, before making his way to the head of the table in an almost all-consuming silence.

In contrast to how Hastur's posture had straightened as he tracked the man's movements as though driven by some magnetic force, Crowley still remained relaxed, the fingers of the hand that had splayed upon the table drumming idly against the surface as though he were actually bored with the impending proceedings. It still amazed Hastur that such a person could have ever found their way to the prized position of right hand to their leader, though even he had never been able to buck up the courage to question the decision to the man that had now taken his seat at the head of the table, both hands placed palms flat upon it as he glanced first to Crowley, and then to Hastur as well, before he finally spoke in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

"Which of you would like to go first?"

"Today, I met with a potential new recruit, looking for a deeper meaning to his life," Hastur replied, sending a smug grin towards Crowley over having beaten him to the punch, before turning his attention towards the grim features of the man who sat upon his left, "I offered him a few—options—for his initiation. Within a fortnight, we will have him."

"And what does he bring to us?" The man sat at the head of the table inquired, his expression impassive as he regarded the lighter-haired of his two companions while waiting for him to carry on—something the other man did with apparent readiness, leaning forward in his chair as he spoke with an enthusiasm that was almost obscene.

"He comes to us from our rivals on the North side of Soho."

"The Devils."

"The very same. He grows dissatisfied with his position in their gang, and hopes to climb the ladders here, instead."

"And how do we know he will not betray us? What promises can he give that are convincing enough to believe, Hastur?"

"I—he has given me certain assurances," Hastur began, risking a glance towards Crowley, and noting that the expression of mild disinterest still remained upon his features, as soon as he had done so. He ought to have known their leader would have questioned him thoroughly, but somehow, he had never managed to think much beyond the simple dangling of the intriguing would-be bait of the newcomer in front of his nose. And so, he found himself sitting speechless for a moment or two longer than he would have liked while his superior's dark eyes bore into his own, a stiff attempt at a swallow causing his throat to convulse for a moment before he found himself capable of speaking once again, "He knows what stands to happen to him if he betrays us."

"Do not bring him here. Not until we know for a fact he is to be trusted."

"Of course."

"And you?" The man at the head of the table went on, shifting until he faced the individual all but lounging with apparent ease on his righthand side, his lips thinning into a line as he took in the nonchalant shrug Crowley gave him, before slouching even further in his chair, if that were possible, while he replied.

"S'not much to report. Business as usual."

"Mayhem for the police?"

"As much as possible," Crowley confirmed, forcing his thoughts to skirt around one member of the police force in particular, so that he could remain unperturbed, as was his usual habit when discussing what he did for their would-be cause, "Managed to nick a few radios out of parked cars when no one was looking, so we can use that to our advantage next time a group of us need to go out in force."

"A diversion," The leader surmised, the vague note of something not all that different from pleasure lacing his otherwise distant tone, and provoking another scowl to flitter across Hastur's face, in response, "Good. Very good. Carry on, Crowley."

"Will do."

"What of the murder? Have either of you heard anything of its motive?"

"Not yet," Hastur supplied, suppressing a flinch beneath the weight of the gaze that swiveled towards him as soon as he spoke, and wetting his lips with his tongue before elaborating further, "Wealthy family, from the looks of it."

"From the reality of it, more like."

"I—what?"

"You really don't know?" Crowley pressed, lips curving into a smirk as he watched Hastur squirm beneath the weight of his inquiry, a tinge of red creeping up the skin of the older man's neck as a result of the reality that he was about to be embarrassed in front of the boss, "I'm amazed—"

"Not exactly a difficult thing to do, Crowley."

"Really? Because I beg to differ."

"Enough," The man at the head of the table hissed, his words pitched low, but carrying no less weight for all of that, as he glanced between his two associates for a moment, before turning towards the younger of the two once again, "Tell me what you know."

"They're the Thompsons. Rich bastards, dad owns a manufacturing plant or two on the outskirts of town."

"And the daughter?"

"Headed off to college. King's, from what I hear."

"Not anymore."

"No. Not anymore," Crowley confirmed, brow furrowed at the callous manner in which their leader dismissed such a young woman's life, though he said nothing of it, knowing it would only go poorly for him if he did, "I've got people looking into it. They know what will happen if they go to anyone else with the information, first."

"Good. And you know what will happen if you go to anyone else before me."

"F'course."

"Right. What's done is done," The man concluded, rising to stand once more, and moving from the room with heavy footsteps that only added to the aura of menace that seemed to waft about him wherever he went. He had been the leader of their organization for some time now, running things with a brutal sort of efficiency that had kept them in place as one of the heavier hitters Soho had to offer. And although even Crowley had to question his own position at the man's right hand, at times, he knew better than to do anything to prompt a questioning of his loyalties.

The man's nickname, however crude, had been given for a reason, after all, for it followed him wherever he went like thunder trails after lightning in the middle of a summer storm.

Death…

…

"Convince her to quit yet?" Eustace Sandalphon's voice rang out, causing Gabriel to glance up from the file folder he had been perusing, with one brow raised in silent inquiry. For the majority of the morning, both he and his partner had been absorbed in their own work, the relative lack of new cases coming across their desks giving them ample opportunity to file away lingering paperwork from those they had already finished. Grateful for the chance to look away from the abysmal file that was the direct result of his own seeming inability to take organized case notes to save his soul, Gabriel shut the folder in one smooth motion before leaning back in his desk chair, his hands linking together over top of his chest after he made a bit of a show of straightening his tie.

"What do you think?" He replied, aware of his partner's ensuing exasperated frown, and managing a shrug as though to make the reality of his fiancé's career choice and his subsequent inability to convince her to change it a bit less mortifying than it actually was, "Fi's always been a stubborn one, Eu. You know that."

"A rather detrimental quality in a woman, don't you think?"

"Not everyone can be your wife, you know."

"No. No, they can't," Sandalphon chuckled, moseying over to lean against the edge of Gabriel's desk, one hand lifting to rub idly at his balding scalp for a moment before he went on, "From your lips, to God's ears. Still, there has to be something to make her see sense."

"Nothing I've found, yet."

"Maybe you are simply looking in all the wrong places."

"Vague, as usual," Gabriel groused, sending his partner an exasperated glare that was not entirely sincere, and swiveling around in his chair just a bit to face the older man head-on, "What's your point with all this?"

"You can't have a war, without war."

"Sandalphon, that doesn't make any sense—"

"Perhaps because you are not thinking of it as you should be," The older man cautioned, a sly smirk taking over his features in such a way that it might have actually provoked Gabriel to feel apprehension, but for the fact that he knew the man about as well as he knew himself. He had always had a penchant for playing with words, such that Gabriel had often mulled over the idea that perhaps Eustace would have been better served coming up with press headlines, as opposed to wielding a gun and upholding the law. But the two of them had always been rather well-suited to working with each other, regardless, up to and including their latest venture in earning a bit more money for themselves, off the radar, and he was not about to start questioning his partner's judgment now.

Not when it had proved far better than his own on multiple occasions, and helped him in getting to the point in his life where he simply took what he wanted, rather than waiting for it to arrive on his doorstep on its own.

"How should I be thinking of it, then?" Gabriel questioned, leaning forward to make a grab for his pen so that he could take to the task of twirling it about idly between his thumb and forefinger while he awaited Sandalphon's ensuing reply.

"In my experience, if you want something bad enough, you need only put in the extra effort to achieve your goal."

"Yeah, that's not really—clearing things up."

"You want your fiancé out of the field, do you not?" Eustace pressed, ignoring Gabriel's rather obvious confusion, and watching avidly until his inquiry earned him the nod of confirmation he had been searching for all along, "You want her at home, focusing on more important things than playing the heroine in some children's tale."

"I—well, when you put it that way, I suppose I do, yes," Gabriel confirmed, about to remark on the fact that he still was not making the connection between getting Fiona off the force, and this 'war' Eustace seemed so fixated upon, only to find he was spared the trouble as his partner hurried to elaborate before he could say a word

"You want her off the force, you find a way to get her off the force. You do whatever is necessary to achieve your goal, or accept the consequences of your failure for what they are."

"You can't have a war, without war."

"Indeed," Sandalphon murmured, a pleased nod serving as his only recognition of the fact that Gabriel had apparently caught on to his hidden meaning, albeit with a bit more prompting than he might have hoped for, in the process. From what he knew of the young woman in question, it may not be an easy task, particularly given she had a very staunch ally in her partner, and the retired Sergeant that had taken them both under his wing. But no matter the obstacle that might present, Sandalphon knew very well that eventually, if Gabriel applied himself, he would come to the outcome he so desired…

If there was anything he knew of Detective Gabriel Dumas, it was that he knew how to get what he wanted, and did not seem capable of shying away from anything he might be required to do to see his goals achieved.

You can't have a war, without war, indeed.

…


	6. Enemy Territory

“So—distracted in the shower,” Anathema mused, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she followed Fiona towards her desk, and perched upon its edge rather than crossing the room to head towards her own, “That sounds like a story that needs to be told.”

“Does it? Because I kind of thought it would be a story that’s better left unheard,” Fiona countered, lifting a brow at her partner’s current position, and shaking her head when the effort only earned her a sweet smile in response, “Besides, we have work to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait a minute, in my opinion.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re so at ease with our current predicament.”

“Someone’s got to be,” Ana replied, suppressing a laugh as she took in Fiona’s almost immediate roll of the eyes, and leaning forward with one hand palm-flat upon the desk so that she could peer over her partner’s shoulder as she fired up her computer, before going on, “In case you haven’t noticed, Fi, I’m trying to get you to relax a bit.”

“I’ll relax when we catch the man who thinks it’s alright to murder a young woman with her whole life ahead of her,” Fiona remarked, absentmindedly typing in her username and password on the screen that popped up on the computer monitor, and then turning towards Anathema once that task had been accomplished, “Sorry. I—I’m not trying to snap at you deliberately, Ana.”

“I know.”

“It’s just—this case—”

“I know,” Ana repeated, reaching across the desk and grabbing onto Fiona’s hand so that she could give it a small squeeze of what she hoped was encouragement, before returning to her original position, and flipping a particularly stubborn lock of dark hair behind her ear, “But we’ll get there, Fi. I know we will.”

“I just hope we get there sooner, rather than later.”

“Me too. Which actually brings me to another question I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Your meet with Shadwell’s informant—how did that go?”

“About as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Fiona began, suddenly faltering beneath the weight of her partner’s intent gaze, and turning her attention to the pen that was situated just beside the keyboard of her computer, so that she could grab it and start to twirl it idly between her thumb and forefinger in an effort at finding an outlet for her sudden bout of nerves, “He—he didn’t know of anything outright, but said he’d look into it a bit.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Anathema acknowledged, picking at a stray thread in the fabric of the dark skirt she wore, only to find her fingers freezing in the act as she caught sight of the faintest hints of pink upon Fiona’s cheeks, “Wait—how is he going to let you know when he finds something?”

“Phone call.”

“You gave him your number?”

“Actually, it was more like he gave it to himself,” Fiona corrected, unable to entirely suppress the faintly amused smile that flickered across her features as she recalled how Crowley had swiped her phone with such casual ease the evening before, “But yes. He said he’d call if he found anything, so I assume we will determine if another meet is required, from there.”

“You like him.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You like him,” Anathema repeated, watching as Fiona’s flush only seemed to deepen, and grinning broadly in response, “Wow. I guess I never imagined you to be the type to have a thing for older men.”

“I don’t. And he’s not.”

“He’s not what?”

“Older,” Fiona said, her teeth digging into the flesh of her lower lip for a moment as she tried and failed to rein in the blush that was spreading so deeply across her cheeks, and avoiding Anathema’s gaze entirely as she turned her attention to the pen in her hands, instead, “He was actually rather—rather young.”

“Oh, really.”

“Don’t make a thing out of this, Ana. It’s not—it’s not a thing.”

“Your blush seems to indicate otherwise.”

“I’m not—it’s just—it’s warm in here.”

“Right. And I’m William Shakespeare,” Anathema quipped, dodging out of the way as Fiona aimed a swat at her arm in retaliation for her teasing, and regarding her companion in silence for a moment while she attempted to decipher the reason for her sudden inability to look her in the eye, “He was attractive, then.”

“Ana!”

“It’s a simple enough question, Fi. Either he’s a looker, or he’s not.”

“It’s completely irrelevant,” Fiona hissed, just one glance at Anathema’s unflappable expression giving her every reason to believe that she was not going to get out of this until she answered her partner’s question, whether she wanted to, or not, “But yes, I suppose he is. Attractive. Objectively, of course.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were very objective.”

“Anathema!”

“What? Was that really so hard to admit?”

“It’s not something either one of us should even care about. A girl has been murdered.”

“Well here’s hoping his mysterious attractiveness can help us find out why,” Anathema supplied, somewhat relieved that her words appeared to have prompted a laugh from Fiona, no matter how brief, and choosing to use that realization as leave to elaborate further, “Did you run any of this by Gabriel?”

“God, no,” Fiona informed, the clatter her pen made as it slipped from her grasp causing her to duck down to retrieve the object, and thus relieving her of the obligation of meeting her partner’s gaze head-on for a moment, as a result, “We uh—he wasn’t really in the mood for much in the way of conversation, last night.”

“I see. Which brings me back to my initial question.”

“Yes. Distracted in the shower. We were.”

“Sounds positively scandalous.”

“Are you happy now?”

“For now,” Anathema admitted, sending Fiona a wink, before hopping off the edge of her desk, and finally making her way towards her own, instead, “But don’t think that gets you off the hook in terms of giving me the full scoop on mister dark and mysterious, later on.”

“Is that really what you’re going to start calling him?”

“Why? You have a better name in mind?”

“We could always try for his actual name, for a start.”

“Come on, where’s the fun in that? It’s so much more intriguing if we make up a code name, instead. Like—like McDreamy.”

“We are not calling him McDreamy,” Fiona protested, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth even in spite of her desire to avoid it as she eyed her partner from behind her desk, and shook her head in a combination of both resignation and amusement upon realizing Anathema was smirking rather openly at her in response, “Definitely not.”

“McSteamy, then.”

“Was someone binging Grey’s last night, then?”

“I’m going to plead the fifth on that one. But seriously,” Anathema pressed, lifting a hand to press her glasses back into place after realizing they had started to slip down the bridge of her nose, “And I’m going to find a code name. You just wait.”

“I shall be on the edge of my seat, dying of anticipation.”

“Ha-ha. I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Fiona promised, her gaze following Anathema’s as soon as she realized that her partner’s attention appeared to have been garnered by the slight squeak the office door gave as it opened, only to be followed by the sharp sound of heels clicking against the flooring not long thereafter. The creator of that sound was headed their way, by the looks of it, her expression stern while cold blue eyes never wavered in their gaze at the two younger women she was approaching. And, aware that both she and Anathema may be in for a bit of a reprimand, given that they had spent the first moments following their arrival engaged in idle conversation, Fiona did what she could to appear sufficiently remorseful, only to find the gesture entirely wasted as their superior drew to a stop between their desks, and eyed them both for another beat of silence before she spoke.

“The two of you need to get ready to leave.”

“Where are we going?” Anathema inquired, sharing a quick glance with her partner, and noting that her own sudden concern and trepidation appeared to be mirrored in Fiona’s expression, as well.

“An old processing plant, abandoned for years, on the city’s North side,” the new Sergeant directed, one hand lifting to pat subconsciously at the absurdly tight updo she had coerced her dark brown hair into as though she were fearful a stray lock of hair might have the audacity to escape, “Pulsifer is already on his way there, to collect forensic evidence. I told him to text you the address when he arrived.”

“And what, exactly—what’s happened?” Fiona asked, twisting around in her seat to reach for her jacket that she had deposited over the back of her chair, and shrugging into the sleeves while she awaited the older woman’s ensuing reply.

“There’s been another murder. And we have every reason to believe there is a connection to the case the two of you are already working.”

Pushing away from her desk, and rising from the chair, Fiona secured the tie of her jacket around her waist with slightly trembling hands, the lingering apprehension she had felt ever since meeting with Shadwell’s informant only growing as she waited for Anathema to prepare to depart, herself. Truthfully, this was exactly what she had feared. That their inability to find anything solid on the first murder would only mean that another would not be long in following. And although she dreaded the prospect of having to tell another family that someone they loved had been taken from them, Fiona did her best to steel herself, regardless, her attention shifting towards her partner as she realized Anathema had moved to stand at her side.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Anathema nodded, settling her hands inside her own jacket pockets, and turning towards their superior before speaking once more, “Anything else we should know before we head out?”

“Yes. The building is known to be one of the more popular meeting places for The Devils. Don’t let your guard down, even for a moment.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll just—we’ll be going, then.”

In response to the sharp nod the Sergeant gave, both Fiona and Anathema stepped around her, and headed towards the door, instead, their shoulders brushing together just a bit as they walked side by side. To say anything less than that the two of them were abundantly on edge would have been a lie, though whether that was because of the mere reality of another murder, or the prospect of being at the apparent heart of one of the larger hubs of gang activity on their own was difficult to say. But both of them knew they had very little choice in the matter at all, and so they would both be far better suited pushing their trepidation to the side, the need to be fully aware of what was going on for their own safety, if nothing else, paramount, given where they were headed.

Even the slightest lapse into inattentiveness could prove deadly, and that was a reality that neither of them was particularly keen to face.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“What is he doing here?”

“What? Who?”

“Sandalphon,” Anathema clarified, leaning forward in the passenger seat of Fiona’s car, and furrowing her brow as her dark eyes remained fixed upon the short, balding man standing on the corner beside the building Newt’s text had directed them towards, “And if he’s here, where’s Gabriel?”

“Somewhere inside, maybe?” Fiona shrugged, pulling the vehicle up to the curb, and cutting the engine so the two of them could open their respective doors, and get out of the car to shut those doors behind them with muted thuds that were soon drowned out by the blazing of the sirens on the other vehicles blocking off the street, “Maybe Sergeant Prince sent backup?”

“Don’t you think she would have said as much before we left, if she did?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You and I both know she’s never been one for waxing eloquent on details.”

“Fair point,” Anathema conceded, moving to her partner’s side as the two of them headed towards the building in question, and Sandalphon headed their way, in return. His expression, much to Anathema’s distaste, was something not all that far away from gleeful, even in spite of the dire nature of their current circumstances. But, knowing as she did that questioning him on such a thing would only waste time that they did not have, she did her best to hold her tongue, eyeing Fiona where she stood beside her from the corner of her eye for a moment before turning her attention forward once again just in time to realize the older man had come to a stop right before them.

“Ladies.”

“Sandalphon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Sergeant Prince sent me ahead to make sure the area was—reasonably secure,” The man informed, his eyes narrowing just a bit as he eyed Anathema with no small amount of suspiciousness, before elaborating further, “Surely you know where we are, Detective Device.”

“I do.”

“Then it seems a bit superfluous for you to be questioning my presence.”

“Right. Because Fiona and I feel so much safer, now that you’re here to protect us.”

“What my partner is trying to say, is thank you,” Fiona interjected, shooting Anathema a stern look, though her heart was not truly in it at all, “Is—is Gabriel with you?”

“No. He had business—elsewhere.”

Momentarily stymied by the remark, Fiona fell silent, only just possessing the wherewithal to follow after Sandalphon as he turned to lead the way back inside the building, itself. It appeared that Newt had already rectified the potential problem of the darkness that riddled its interior by placing the occasional portable lantern in amongst the rubble and debris that littered the floor. And so, the trio was able to make their way towards the nervous looking young man where he stood in approximation of the center of the room they traversed, his hands fiddling together in front of his abdomen as he turned in response to the sounds created by their approach.

“Hi guys,” He began, swallowing thickly as he lifted one hand to shove his glasses back into their proper position upon his nose, and glancing between the three detectives that stood before him, before he allowed his attention to stray, however reluctantly, back to the reason they were all there, to begin with, “I’ve ah—I’ve started to analyze the—”

“The body?”

“Yes,” Newt confirmed, casting a furtive glance behind where he stood in response to Sandalphon’s almost impatient directive, and flinching as his eyes invariably found themselves drawn towards the brutal gash that was made across a pristine white throat, “She ah—from the looks of it, she wasn’t actually murdered here.”

“Any idea where she was, then?” Anathema inquired, frowning a bit as she realized her inquiry had caused Newt to blush rather fiercely, and stammer out his ensuing reply while keeping his eyes rather firmly fixed upon the ground at their feet.

“Not—not a clear picture, yet, no. But once we get her back to the—the lab, I should be able to come up with something more useful.”

“Shame you couldn’t come up with something, now.”

“Yes, well I’m sure he will find something once he’s back at the lab,” Fiona cut in, bristling just a bit at Sandalphon’s barely veiled criticism of a man who she considered a friend, and finding that she was entirely incapable of restraining her slight aggravation, regardless of the slight intrigue that had become so apparent in his answering expression, as though he were daring her to accuse him of something sinister right then and there, “He’s one of the best, Sandalphon. You know that.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he is simply out of his depth,” The older man remarked, suppressing a grin in response to the almost automatic tensing that became so apparent in Fiona’s frame, just as he noted the way Anathema reached out to place a steadying hand upon the young woman’s forearm in response, “Well, now that the two of you are here, I suppose I should take my leave. Do be careful, of course—it would be such a shame for the force to lose two of their most promising young detectives to an act of senseless gang violence.”

“We’ll do our best,” Anathema quipped, tightening her hold on Fiona’s arm as she felt her partner and friend move forward as Sandalphon turned on a heel to depart, as though she wanted to say something to counter the honestly odd comment he had made, regardless of what consequences might come about as a result, “Leave it, Fi.”

“But—”

“Leave it. Please. We need to get to work, and getting riled up about Sandalphon’s taunting isn’t worth it, right now.”

Aware that Ana was right, even though she did not particularly want to admit it at the moment, Fiona managed a curt nod, and stepped back to reclaim her former position at her partner’s side, her blue eyes trailing after Sandalphon until he had disappeared through the door, and was out of sight once more. She had never liked the man, regardless of whether he had been her fiancé’s partner for several years, and that Gabriel seemed to adore the man, in spite of how common sense seemed to scream that he was untrustworthy. But her own personal feelings aside, Fiona knew that Anathema had a point when she tried to get her to stand down…

Her attention really should be focused on other things.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

From his position peering over part of the disintegrated flooring of the second floor in the derelict building he had been directed to deposit the body in, a dark-skinned man watched the trio below with some interest. Two women and a man were standing beside that body, their expressions veiled in the shadows cast by the small lanterns the man had set about at even intervals on the dirty floor. The stranger was quite certain that he was not armed, his demeanor far too skittish to be of any use brandishing a weapon at all. But the women—they were entirely different, in spite of the diminutiveness of their stature.

The two of them looked like they could hold their own, and that realization had been what had prompted him to send a quick message to his companion waiting unobtrusively in a nearby alleyway, the text short, but nonetheless informative in its entirety.

Need diversion. Will be exposed if one of them searches upper floor.

The text sent, all that was left to do was wait for extraction, and so the man maneuvered around the edge of the flooring beside the gaping hole that gave a perfectly unobstructed view of the room below, until he was able to lean against a column extending down from the ceiling and remain hidden from their view, should any one of them chance to look up. He could not entirely make out what they were saying to one another, the noise from the nearby street and the accompanying police sirens making it impossible to hear anything save for his own thoughts. But somehow, even without knowing whether or not the trio below might have any prominent theories regarding how the girl’s body came to be there, the man was satisfied enough knowing that in just a few moments, they would be in over their heads.

And only two of them would be able to do anything about it. They would be outnumbered in seconds, he knew, as his boss was never one for doing things in half-measures. And they would be dead long before any of their fellow comrades in those cruisers outside could do a damned thing to stop it.

Grinning at the thought of what was likely to come, the man allowed the hand that was not placed palm-flat upon the column beside him to reach back to the concealed weapon stowed between the hem of his jeans, and his back, his fingers curling around the cool metal while dark eyes glinted in the reflected light of the portable lanterns below. The lighter-skinned female had already stepped away from her two companions, her brow furrowed as she spoke into the device held so tightly to her ear. And then he saw it. The faintest flicker of a flashlight’s beam that bounced across the ceiling amongst the blues and reds of the police lights on the street outside, his smile only growing in response to the familiar pattern that signified someone else he knew was close.

Reinforcements had arrived…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“You’re certain,” Sergeant Prince’s cold voice echoed out over the line, the utter lack of any sort of inflection at all causing Fiona to purse her lips into a frown, before she found the gumption to reply.

“I am. Newt says there is absolutely no way she was killed here.”

“What you’re suggesting, Detective Fell—if you’re wrong, the repercussions could be—severe.”

“I’m aware,” Fiona acknowledged, bringing her free hand up to massage at her temple, only to find herself suddenly distracted by a flash of light twinkling in the corner of her eye. Turning slightly to look in that direction, it became apparent that the source of the flickering was not from any of the portable lanterns Newt had brought along with him. But before she could make any further attempts at discerning exactly what it might be, the Sergeant’s voice reached her ears once more, the sound effectively jolting her back to the present and causing her to return her attention to the conversation at hand, instead.

“Detective, are you listening?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. Go—go on.”

“You need to be absolutely certain your suspicion is correct,” Prince instructed, her tone nothing short of stern as she exhaled in a sharp gust of air that had Fiona flinching in response, “If this is not the work of the same man, and we release a statement that it is, we will be igniting panic for no reason.”

“I am. I am absolutely certain,” Fiona assured, her brow furrowing as she once again found herself distracted by the flickering light, and whirling around to glance up at the ceiling to follow its progress, “I—ma’am, can I call you back?”

“Detective Fell, this is not a joke—”

“I know. I know, I just really need to call you back,” The young woman pressed, hanging up the call before her superior could say anything further, in spite of the fact that she knew she would likely pay for the act upon her return to the station. But regardless of the potential consequences, something about the way the beam of light continued to flash against the darkened beams of the ceiling had caused her blood to run cold, her gaze dropping to where Anathema still stood beside the body of their most recent victim, with Newt at her side, her voice catching in her throat for a moment before she was finally able to call out to them in a voice surprisingly hoarse, despite the fact that she had just been engaged in conversation.

“Ana—”

The single word had barely left her mouth when the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot split through the air, forcing her to duck behind a nearby pile of rubble from the destroyed floor of the story above. Glancing towards the source, and simultaneously reaching for the weapon holstered at her side, Fiona winced against the instantaneous flash of pain that came from her upper arm—and as still more shots echoed from the general direction of the doorway, as well as from somewhere on the upper floor, Fiona did her best to push her sudden fear aside, her right hand pulling her gun from the holster while her left brushed against the source of the pain in her right bicep and came away sticky with blood.  
It looked as though The Devils may have found them, after all…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	7. Patched Up

Crouching behind the pile of rubble, Fiona clutched her weapon so tightly that her knuckles went white, her heart hammering in her ears, while gunshots echoed all around. She could no longer see Anathema, or Newt, though knowing her partner, she would have tugged the forensic expert behind sufficient cover of their own as soon as the first shot was fired. But although she wanted to find some way of ensuring that suspicion was, in fact, the truth, she knew that exposing herself in that way, rather than by trying to discern a clear location for the source of the heavy fire so that she could attempt to neutralize the threat would be perhaps one of the more foolish things she could ever do.

She had to focus on the matter at hand, and trust that Ana could fend for herself, and Newt, without either one of them getting hurt.

Closing her eyes in hopes of steeling her nerves, Fiona did what she could to corral her breathing to a more even pace, her heartrate slowing in tandem with the haggard nature of her breaths. She had to hold it together, if they were to stand a chance at getting out of this, alive. And so, she allowed herself one last exhalation before shifting so that she could peer over the top edge of the pile of rubble she had ducked behind, her eyes catching the small flash of movement from the floor above them before she was forced to retreat once more as two fresh shots flew past.

Dimly, Fiona could hear shouts coming from the outside of the building, and the sound of pounding feet on gravel, as well. Whether they were reinforcements from the police that had been stationed outside, cordoning off the area, or for whoever it was that was shooting at them was unknowable at present, though obviously Fiona hoped it was the former, and not the latter with all that she had. But what mattered most in the moment was attempting to eliminate at least one of the assailants that were pinning them down, and so Fiona bit down on her lower lip while simultaneously flexing her shoulders in hopes of relieving them of the tension that held them in its grip, another short exhalation escaping through her nostrils before she rose up on her knees and fired three shots in the direction she had last seen the flicker of movement on the top floor.

As she ducked back down behind the rubble pile, the sound of a yell mingled with the subsequent gunshots from doorway giving her reason to believe that at least one of her shots had found their mark. Though she would have enjoyed nothing more than the brief flare of satisfaction that came about as the result of such a thing in any other circumstances, the young woman found that she could not allow herself to do so now, her focus settling itself upon the task of preparing to risk another volley of her own, instead.

Distraction, in any form, was more likely than not far deadlier than the gunshots, alone.

Steeled by the thought, inasmuch as was possible, Fiona redirected her attention towards the other sources of the shots ricocheting around the room, the smallest sensation of relief making itself known as she realized some of those shots were coming from the direction from which she had last seen Ana and Newt. With that realization in mind, she was able to inch over to the other side of the obstacle she had hidden behind. But before she could fully succeed in doing so, the sudden sound of a rough shout reached her ears, the voice far nearer than she expected, and causing her to freeze in place as she thought over what to do next.

“Fan out. None of them leave here, alive.”

Ignoring the jolt of apprehension that hit her in response to the remark, Fiona shifted as slowly as she could to avoid making a sound, her body stretching out until she was all but flat on her stomach on the debris beneath her. The act allowed her to scoot forward, albeit at a painstaking pace such that time seemed to freeze in place, until she could look just beyond the edge of her temporary cover, and get a better picture of the room at large. She could see two pairs of dark boots moving away from her location, while a third had begun to head towards the far end of the room, and another door that remained mostly shrouded in darkness. And although she knew that doing so would only expose her own location, Fiona slowly moved the hand holding her weapon up until she could take aim as best she could in her current position, hoping beyond hope that her aim would prove true.

If it did, perhaps there was a chance Anathema would take the hint and use the momentary distraction to take down an assailant of her own to even the odds, albeit on a relatively minor scale.

Breathe—aim—fire—

The shot seemed to echo as it connected with its target, the man that had been standing a few paces away buckling at the knees, and falling to the floor in seconds, flat. In response to the success, Fiona allowed herself just enough time exposed for one more shot, this one connecting with the man’s abdomen as he turned with a yell, and aimed his own weapon her way. Ducking back behind the pile of rubble she had been squatting behind just in time, the young woman winced as return fire came her way. But the sound of another grunt, followed by a large mass scattering nearby rubble soon followed, the sound provoking a faint smile to her lips in spite of the potential foolhardiness of the gesture as she realized exactly what it meant in no time at all.

Anathema had caught on, then. 

Good.

Reassured, to say the least, Fiona shifted until she was balanced on the balls of her feet, then, her body centered over her heels as she registered the sound of running feet that signified the man that had been edging out of the room returning in the wake of the shots that had felled his comrades. She was relatively certain, now, that her partner would have been thinking the same thing. That they needed to take him down, ensure the three men on their floor remained incapacitated, and then discern what had happened to the man upstairs. And in order to ensure that end came into being, Fiona rolled her shoulders just a bit in an attempt to loosen tense muscles, before steeling her resolve, and rising to her feet to turn towards the direction the third man was coming from in the same fluid motion.

“Dinnae think too hard, lass. Just breathe, and fire.”

Breathe, and fire…

Doing as Shadwell had instructed her so many times when they were at the firing range, Fiona squeezed her finger over the trigger, the slight motion out of the corner of her eye indicating that Anathema had done the same. It was no secret that the two of them were well-matched, as far as partners go, the reality of having been trained by the same man likely helping in that regard, just as the easy friendship that had formed between them since the very first day on the job gave them an edge as compared to the numerous partnerships on the force that were riddled with tension and dislike. And although people like her fiancé had always criticized the act of becoming too close with one’s partner, Fiona could not find it within herself to hold to the same opinion, now.  
Her partner had saved her life on more than one occasion, just as Fiona had returned the favor, and she would be a fool to pretend that she was not abundantly grateful for the fact that the two of them seemed to have been on the same wavelength in terms of tactical plans since day one.

That reality appeared to be to their advantage today, as well, as both of them moved forward at the same time after the third man had fallen, while Newt peered out at them from behind the overturned table he had been hidden behind. In next to no time at all, the two of them had managed to kick the weapons away from the wounded men, who were either unconscious, or nearly there, a wince passing over Fiona’s features as the act of stooping to ensure a pulse on one of their assailants pulled at the edges of her momentarily forgotten wound.

“You’re hurt—”

“Get Newt out of here,” Fiona cut in, her gaze already traveling up to the perimeter of the upper floor that was in her direct line of sight, her brow furrowing as the sense that they were still being watched caused a shiver to travel down her spine, “I’ll clear the rest of the building.”

“I—what? No! I’m not leaving you alone, to—”

“Ana, I need you to listen to me. Get Newt out of here, and—”

“Get down!”

In time with the shout, Fiona found that Anathema had effectively shoved her to the ground behind a dilapidated chiar, the suddenness of the impact knocking the wind out of her as renewed gunfire came from the upper floor. Instinctively, she rolled onto her knees, the slight motion out of the corner of her eye suggesting that Anathema had once again retreated behind the table with Newt to reevaluate their options. And that was when she realized it—that, in the minutes since Anathema had shoved her to the ground, she had inadvertently dropped her weapon, leaving her with no means of defense as another flicker at the corner of her vision caused her to whirl just in time to catch sight of the shadowy figure on the upper floor that had somehow managed to skirt around until they had her directly in their sights…

Just as she had been prepared to do something—anything—to avoid the shot she knew without a doubt was coming, however, Fiona found the effort rendered futile, her eyes widening as the sound of another shot registered in the back of her mind, and the man who had been aiming right at her toppled from the upper floor to land in the rubble at her feet. Startled, to say the least, she spun back to face Anathema, only to realize that her partner’s puzzled, and slightly wary expression only indicated she had as little idea of who had fired than Fiona did, herself. Which was why the young woman still remained tense as she moved back to where her weapon had fallen to the ground, her fingers curling around the metal while another figure appeared just inside the door.

“Sorry I’m late, ladies—that roadblock you’ve got out there didn’t exactly want to let me through.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“She’s late.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Gabriel snapped, reaching into his pocket once again to withdraw his cell phone, and suppressing a groan of aggravation as he saw the exact same thing as the last time he had looked upon the screen—nothing, “She knew the reservation was at six—”

“Maybe she got tied up at work,” Selena suggested, glancing up from her martini glass, and quirking a brow at her son as he leveled an almost challenging glare her way, “What? You’re the one that’s always going on about last minute paperwork, darling.”

“She’s not tied up with paperwork, Mother.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I told her how important this was. I told her, and she decided to ignore me.”

“I thought you said you were going to talk to her about this career choice, son—” Victor cut in, exhaling around a puff of cigar smoke, and blatantly ignoring his wife’s shrewd look that was so clearly intended as a silent directive to put it out in favor of moving to stand at Gabriel’s side, his free hand coming to rest upon his son’s shoulder, “I thought you were going to talk to her about it quite a while ago, to be honest.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“What do you think?” Came the retort, a muscle in Gabriel’s jaw jumping as he flagged the bartender down for another whiskey, before he turned towards his father with an expression that was nothing short of enraged, “She won’t listen. It just turns into a fight.”

“You can’t make up with her after those fights?”

“Trust me, Dad, I’m more than capable of that.”

“Then I fail to see what the problem is,” Victor pressed, watching as his son downed half of his new glass of top notch liquor in one gulp, and lifting the hand that held his cigar up so that he could scratch at his brow with the nail of his thumb before going on, “Keep bringing it up, wear her down, and it’s a done deal. Eventually she’ll get tired of fighting.”

“I’m not so sure that she will.”

“You could always give her a reason to quit,” Selena suggested, a well-manicured fingertip twirling the little plastic sword that speared through two olives in her drink, while she regarded her son with a saccharine smile, “I’ve mentioned it before, dear.”

“I know, Mother.”

“And have you suggested it to her, yet?”

“Haven’t exactly had the time.”

“Well maybe you should make the time. She’s not going to be young and beautiful forever, you know.”

“Thank you, Mother, for your startling insight. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take to it right away,” Gabriel ground out, downing the rest of his drink, and signaling for yet another, while simultaneously turning to face his father once more, “Should we just take a table, and wait there?”

“I’m fine right here, son,” Victor replied, flagging the bartender for a drink of his own, and taking another puff of his cigar as he clapped his free hand on his son’s shoulder once again, though his gaze strayed towards the bartender in time to note that one of the buttons on her dress shirt appeared to have popped open without her being aware, “No sense in going without a few more good drinks while we wait.”

“Fair point,” Gabriel acknowledged, leaning forward to rest both elbows upon the bar, and reaching inside his pocket once more in spite of the fact that he somehow knew that his phone screen would be every bit as blank as it had been just moments before.

“Lord knows how many more we’ll need, before the night is done…”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Jimmy?”

“Hey, Fi,” The newcomer grinned, stepping into the halo of light cast by one of the nearby lanterns, and holstering his weapon as the woman he addressed maintained her hold upon her own and edged towards the man who had just fallen from the room above, “Long time, eh?”

“You—you could say that. How did you—what the hell happened to everyone at the roadblock?”

“Apparently, they were instructed to extend further out, to keep more people away.”

“They what?”

“Yeah, they received radio intel direct from HQ. Someone pretty high up must have given the order, because—”

“Who gave the order?” Anathema interjected, dragging an obviously very shell-shocked Newt out from behind their own makeshift shelter, and moving to stand beside Fiona as she regarded the newcomer with a cautious sort of intrigue, “And who the hell are you?”

“Jimmy. Riordan. Fiona’s old partner before she turned into a big wig and got the detective job.”

“He’s good, Ana. He’s one of us,” Fiona assured, aware of her partner’s slightly suspicious expression, and endeavoring to waylay it, given the mayhem they had both just endured, while simultaneously turning back towards her old partner from her days as a beat cop, to repeat Anathema’s former inquiry, “But I really think I’d like to know who gave that order, as well.”

“From what I heard; it was Sergeant Prince.”

“Michael?”

“Unless there’s another one roaming about, yeah,” Jimmy confirmed, glancing back at the doorway he had just come through in time to recognize his partner, Stills, and a few other uniformed officers arriving as well, “I take it the two of you are good with letting us handle bringing these goons in for questioning?”

“Only if you tell them to get the forensic evidence that wasn’t just destroyed, and bring that, too.”

“Oh, that—Fiona, that won’t be—necessary,” Newt finally spoke up, his voice trembling as his eyes darted around the room, and his hands trembled where he clasped them before his abdomen, “I can—I can take care of that.”

“No, you can’t. You’re shaking from head to foot.”

“Yes, well, adrenaline, and all—I’m sure it will go—go away, soon.”

“Fiona’s right. You need to get some rest,” Anathema agreed, her words clearly startling the man who stood beside her, though they did not appear to have the power to make him flinch as though he had just been burned like the sudden touch of her hand upon his arm did, “Go home. Regroup. We can get a fresh crack at all of this in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

“We’re positive,” Fiona promised, sending Anathema what she hoped would pass for a grateful smile, and reaching forward to squeeze Newt’s arm herself, “And if you need anything at all tonight, you know who to call.”

“You?”

“Damn straight.”

“Oh—okay,” Newt murmured, glancing between Fiona and Anathema, as though wondering if either one of them would change their mind at the last possible moment, only to find that neither of them did, whether he wanted them to or not, “I’ll—I’ll see you both tomorrow then?”

“Absolutely,” Fiona confirmed, frowning a bit as she watched Newt turn away from them, and stumble towards the doorway that was now flanked by two of the officers that had come in not long after Jimmy had arrived, “Jimmy, can you see if maybe one of your guys can walk him to his car? Maybe—follow him home?”

From the looks of him, Newt would be better served not being on his own for as long as was humanly possible…

“Sure thing,” Her former partner agreed, gesturing towards the man at the left-hand side of the door, and indicating he should follow Newt as he left the building, before turning back to face Fiona, and allowing his gaze to travel towards her still-bleeding right arm, “And you are going to come with me.”

“I—what? No, I’m—I’m fine!”

“Like hell you are. That wound needs to be checked out, and bandaged at the very least.”

“He’s right,” Anathema chimed in, sending her partner a satisfied smile as Fiona found herself powerless to resist the gentle tug Jimmy gave her uninjured arm, “And if you’re worried about that fancy dinner—”

“Oh my God, the dinner—”

“I’ll call Gabriel for you and let him know you’ll be a bit delayed.”

“Gee, thanks, Ana,” Fiona quipped, rolling her eyes as her partner stuck her tongue out at her as she took up a place on her opposite side while Jimmy continued to escort her towards the ambulance that had now been parked a block away, “I appreciate the help.”

“Any time, Fi. Lord knows I just love talking to your fiancé.”

“Oh, trust me, Ana. I know.”

She could only hope that her partner didn’t say or do anything that might inadvertently lander in hotter water than she was already likely to be in…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Around two hours later, after reluctantly allowing one of the paramedics to patch up her arm, and giving over her portion of the paperwork to Anathema with equal hesitation, Fiona found herself walking up to the entrance of the country club, her hand lifting to tuck a loose lock of dark hair behind her ear as she jogged across the remainder of the lot to the sidewalk, and waved her thanks to the car that had waited to let her pass. In the time since she had left the crime scene, it had started to rain, a gentle sort of drizzle that had allowed her hair to start to frizz a bit, no matter how many times she tried to smooth it down. And although she knew she really ought to duck into the bathroom to attempt to improve her appearance as best she could, Fiona was a bit more preoccupied with simply making her presence known, instead.

There was, after all, something to be said for ripping the band-aid off sooner, rather than later.

With such a thought in mind, the young woman walked through the sliding glass doors to the lobby of the club, her apprehension over exactly what reaction her arrival would warrant causing her lips to purse into a line as she headed towards the desk. The attendant was already looking at her with some skepticism, her bedraggled appearance making her stand out quite a bit when compared to the posh skirts, blouses, and sheath dresses that the female patrons of the establishment usually wore. But before the young man could say anything that might call into question her presence, she forced a smile to her lips, her blue eyes holding his own while she spoke.

“Table for Dumas?”

“Yes, ah—third from the back, beside the window overlooking the pond.”

“Wonderful. Thank you,” Fiona acknowledged, turning from the desk and heading towards the double glass doors that would open out onto the main dining room floor, only to find herself stifling a gasp as a rough hand latched around her arm just below the bandage that was covering her wound beneath the fabric of her jacket, and she was forced to do nothing except play along as she was pushed into the nearby coatroom, and pressed with her back flat against the wall while a familiar deep voice growled in her ear.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Gabe, you’re hurting me—”

“Then answer my damned question,” Her fiancé hissed, never even bothering to loosen his hold upon her arm in spite of the fact that she was trying her best to squirm away, “Where were you?”

“At work,” Fiona replied, biting into her lower lip to keep from crying out as Gabriel’s thumb shifted infinitesimally on her arm, so that it came to press just below the edge of the injury on her arm, “Gabriel, please—”

“You knew about this dinner for months, Fiona.”

“I know that—”

“Then why the hell didn’t you try to leave early?”

“Because I didn’t think that I would go to a new crime scene, and end up getting shot!”

Almost as soon as she had said the words, Fiona regretted them, the way her voice had risen just a bit effectively garnering the attention of nearly everyone in the vicinity, such that anyone she could see passing by the coatroom seemed to stop and stare in abject curiosity. Just by the way Gabriel’s eyes had darkened in response, she could tell he was far more concerned about her causing a scene, or attracting attention with her rather lacking attire for the evening. But before she could say or do anything that might remedy the situation, she realized Gabriel was dropping his hand back to his side, his eyes lingering on the spot on her jacket where blood had begun to seep through the fabric after having been so roughly handled, though the realization seemed to have little effect on his temperament at all.

“It’s minor, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The gunshot. It’s minor,” Gabriel repeated, the scoff so apparent in his tone that Fiona was forced to do all within her power to avoid giving in to the desire to shove past him and walk right back out the door, “You’ve had it treated.”

“I did.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“Seriously?”

“My parents are waiting, Fiona. We can talk about this later, when we get home.”

Frowning as a hundred different replies flashed through her mind at once, Fiona settled for managing a curt nod in lieu of verbalizing any of them, her lips once again thinning into a line as she registered Gabriel’s brief gesture indicating she should follow after him as he moved to leave the coatroom once again. As soon as they were back in the lobby, Fiona felt his arm winding securely about her waist—and although she wanted to pull away, particularly as the contact pulled her injured arm against his side and made her wince in response, the young woman forced herself to remain as she was, her shoulders squaring as the two of them moved through the glass doors a server had opened for them, and Gabriel began leading her towards the table his parents waited at as quickly as he could.

This was going to be a very long night, and for one very brief, and admittedly insane moment, Fiona caught herself wishing that perhaps her injury had been significant enough to allow her to miss out on the event, altogether…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, angels! Just as a warning, there is a bit of a lemon in this chapter (I say “a bit” because I intentionally made it probably the most bare bones lemon that ever existed). So for any of you that would prefer not to read such things, minimal as it may be, or not, you’ll probably want to stop reading after "And it was the precise thing she knew she would, if Gabriel had his way.” I promise, aside from a minor spat for our not so solid couple, you won’t miss much, and the rest of the action will pick up next time around!
> 
> With that said, I will stop my rambling here! Many thanks for sticking with this story and giving it a chance, and happy reading!

“Fiona, darling, we were so worried,” Selena gushed, pulling her daughter-in-law to be into what might pass for a genuine embrace, save for the brittle smile firmly in place upon her lips as she pulled back to look the younger woman up and down, “You’re—Fiona, you’re bleeding.”

“She’s fine, Mother,” Gabriel interjected, his roll of the eyes almost imperceptible as he reached for his fiancé’s arm once more to tug her over towards her seat, “Just a scratch.”

“Well I suppose it’s only to be expected, what with her line of work. All the more reason for her to quit, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I don’t have any intention of quitting—”

“Fiona—”

“I don’t,” The young woman insisted, ignoring the sharp look Gabriel was sending her way, and turning to face her future father-in-law as he downed yet another sizeable gulp of his drink as though he didn’t care either way what her opinion might have been on his recent suggestion, “I happen to love my job, Victor.”

“Dad, Fiona. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Dad,” The older man corrected, chuckling a bit at the slight lift of the young woman’s brow, before turning his attention towards his son with a knowing smile upon his face, “She’s a stubborn one, son. You were right about that.”

“I’m aware.”

“Well, now that we’re all here, perhaps we can get down to enjoying a round of drinks before dinner?” Selena suggested, aware of the obvious tension in her son’s frame, and seeking to remedy it the only way she knew how, “Fiona certainly looks like she could use one.”

“Mother—”

“Actually, Gabriel, she’s right,” Fiona cut in, aware of her fiancé’s scathing expression, and choosing to send him her best attempt at a sweet smile before going on, “A drink sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Well then, we have our marching orders. Ladies, pick your poison.”

“Another martini, dear. Dry. Two olives.”

“And you, my dear?” Victor inquired, reaching inside his jacket pocket for a cigar and his lighter, while simultaneously directing a sly smile Fiona’s way, “What would you like?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Duly noted. I’ll go get them.”

“You don’t have to do that, Dad,” Gabriel advised, only to find his protest cut short as his father rose from his seat and lit his cigar in the same motion.

“Nonsense, son, it’s my pleasure.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“What, you don’t think your old man can handle a few drinks by himself?” Victor scoffed, chuckling to himself as he shook his head and turned to head in the direction of the bar, “I’ll be fine, Gabriel. Keep the ladies occupied while I’m away.”

“I’m sure he’ll do just fine at that,” Selena encouraged, waving her husband away with a languid flip of her hand, before turning her attention back towards Fiona and leaning forward in an almost conspiratorial fashion before speaking once more, “There’s something I wanted to discuss with the two of you in private, anyway.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Children.”

“Selena, we aren’t even married, yet,” Fiona protested, her fingertips fiddling with a fork for want of anything better to do while she took a moment to force a steadying breath, knowing that allowing her aggravation to show would do little to no good at all, “I think children are a ways off, for both of us.”

“Not necessarily. Gabriel tells me you’ve been trying rather frequently, and with no luck.”

“I didn’t realize our sex life was something he discussed with you.”

“Cut it out, Fiona. Mother is only trying to help.”

“And besides, I’m only doing what any good mother would do,” Selena pressed, taking control of the conversation once again before Fiona could get a word in edgewise, and suppressing a tiny smile at the obvious discomfort in the younger woman’s face as a result, “Gabriel came to me with a concern, and I resolved to help in any way I can.”

“You really don’t need to—”

“Nonsense, darling, I’ve already helped so many of my friends who had the same issue. I guess you could say I’m something of an expert.”

“An expert in what?”

“Infertility.”

“In—infertility,” Fiona repeated, the fork she had been fiddling with sliding out from between her fingertips, and landing against the fabric of the tablecloth with a muted thud, “That’s what you think this is?”

“Well, what else could it be, dear? If you really have been trying, and you’re not on the pill—”

“I have no idea, but that doesn’t mean it’s—that I’m—”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Selena interrupted, glancing towards the bar to ensure that Victor was still otherwise occupied, and turning back to her son’s fiancé as soon as she was satisfied that his return was not imminent, “Plenty of women encounter it. And I have several friends in the medical field that may be able to help.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

“It wouldn’t hurt, Fiona. I mean, a child is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” Gabriel cut in, the barely veiled tension in his tone causing his fiancé to flinch, though she did her best to avoid letting it become too obvious she had done so while his hand came to rest more than a little firmly upon her knee below the table, “Let Mother speak.”

“Thank you, Gabriel,” Selena enthused, reaching across the table to pat at her son’s hand, before turning sharp eyes towards Fiona once again, “I can understand if you aren’t ready to discuss it yet, of course—”

“She’s ready. We both are.”

“Really. Because that’s news to me.”

“Fiona—”

“No, Gabriel, really,” The young woman insisted, holding his gaze even as she felt the telltale sensation of his fingertips digging into her thigh while he shot her a warning glare, “This isn’t something we should be discussing right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because for one thing we are in the middle of a country club. And for another, you know I can’t afford to have that much time off work right now.”

“Maybe that would be different if you finally realized you didn’t have to work at all.”

“And here we go again.”

“Gabriel has a point, dear. He makes more than enough to situate you both comfortably, and you know if you ever run into trouble Victor and I are happy to help.”

“I wasn’t raised with the inclination to take charity, Selena.”

“Oh, but it’s not charity. It’s what family does,” The older woman said, straightening a bit in her seat as she realized Victor had returned with their drinks, and once again plastered a grin upon her face, “Just think about it, Fiona. That’s all I ask. And when you are ready, you just let me know.”

“Let you know about what?” Victor asked, depositing the drinks he had obtained upon the table, and sliding back into his seat with the nub of his cigar clutched tightly between his teeth, “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing, dear. Just a little talk between mother and daughter, so to speak.”

“Well, now that all’s said and done, shall we grab an appetizer before the main course? I’m starving, and if I have any more booze on an empty stomach, only God knows what may happen.”

The group, such as they were, seemed content to murmur their agreement, though Fiona had fallen silent in the wake of the conversation that had just transpired. The thought had crossed her mind, of course, mostly as a result of the rather obvious disappointment her fiancé had always shown each and every time she returned from the store with more toiletries that only proved none of his attempts to get her pregnant had taken hold. But perhaps what troubled her more than her seeming inability to conceive, was the fact that each and every time she found out she had not, the tiniest bit of relief overrode any and all disappointment she might otherwise have felt in response.

She wanted a child, but the idea of being forced to choose between a career she loved, and a life of relative isolation regardless of how much she loved the new baby was something she did not particularly want to face…

And it was the precise thing she knew she would, if Gabriel had his way.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The ride home was nerve-wracking, to say the least, despite the fact that the remainder of the dinner had gone off without a hitch. Of course, the greater part of Fiona’s attention was forced to remain focused upon the road, to avoid crashing into any oncoming cars. But, in the back of her mind, she could not help but think of exactly what awaited her when she did return home, her teeth constantly chewing at the inside of her lip while she drove until she registered the metallic taste of blood upon her tongue.

She knew that sooner or later, Gabriel would confront her about her reaction to his mother’s suggestion, and that said reaction would be nothing less than unpleasant, no matter how fiercely she may try to persuade him that she had not meant to give offense.  
Her fiancé had never been one for hearing her side of the story, even in the beginning, and not for the first time, Fiona found herself marveling at how they had even managed to make their relationship last at all.

Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind, Fiona felt guilt coming over her in waves, her relief that she had made it home without incident fading away in the wake of her sudden nerves as she put the car in park and took the key out of the ignition. The glint of the nearby light on top of the garage door caught the diamond of her engagement ring, only making her guilt increase. But regardless of whether she knew staying put would be futile, even if only for a moment, Fiona did exactly that, her hands brushing through dark hair as she leaned back against the driver’s seat and exhaled in a long sigh.

Might as well bite the bullet, so to speak, and get the ugliness over with…

Not exactly steeled by the notion, and yet resolved to get on with the evening all the same, Fiona climbed out of the car and shut the driver’s side door behind her with a low thud, her hands automatically seeking refuge inside her jacket pockets as she walked up the long driveway and toward the front door. She hated feeling like this. Like she was walking over a landmine, instead of reaching the safety and comfort of her own home. And although some part of her recognized that this very feeling really should be functioning as a sort of red flag about her relationship, the young woman once again shoved that thought to the side, her shoulders squaring as she approached the door to slip the key into the lock, and step inside the foyer before shutting and locking the door behind her once again.

Fiona made the first few steps inside without event, her brow furrowing as she glanced around the foyer as though expecting Gabriel to appear at any moment. When he did not, she found her nervousness only growing, her hands smoothing idly at the fabric of her jeans after she had abandoned her jacket and bag on the chair beside the front door and started to make her way down the hall towards the kitchen, instead. Her heels clicked along the tiling of the floor as she moved, almost seeming to echo in the surprising amount of silence she had encountered ever since she opened the front door. And even though she knew it was unwise, she found herself calling out for her fiancé in the wake of the relative isolation she could feel suddenly pressing down upon her as she stepped into the kitchen, only to find her breath catching in her throat as she found herself face to face with Gabriel as he moved out from behind the kitchen island, drink in hand.

“Gabe—oh.”

“Yes. Oh,” Her fiancé repeated, dark eyes straying toward the liquid in his glass for a moment before he downed it in one large swig, and set it on the countertop with a dull thud, “What the hell was that, earlier?”

“I was—it wasn’t a good time to discuss it.”

“She was only trying to help.”

“In the middle of the club, where just anyone could overhear. Yes, that’s very helpful,” Fiona snapped, determination causing her spine to straighten even though she could already see Gabriel’s expression darkening in response to her words, “I really wasn’t trying to offend her, Gabe, but really—that’s—it’s private.”

“Are you saying my mother makes you uncomfortable?”

“I’m saying that anyone knowing about what we do or don’t do in the bedroom makes me uncomfortable.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to make you happy, Fiona,” Gabe retorted, sarcasm apparent in his tone as he stepped still closer towards her, and managed to force her back until her body bumped against the wall beside the refrigerator, “I didn’t realize that was a capital offense.”

“It’s—it’s not, but you should have talked to me about it first if it troubled you that much.”

“I thought it troubled you, too.”

“Honestly? I hadn’t—I didn’t know you wanted a baby this soon,” Fiona admitted, trying her best not to shrink away from the sudden flare of disbelief that was so apparent in Gabriel’s gaze, despite the fact that he had lifted both of his hands to cage her between the wall and his body even more effectively than he already had, “Don’t look at me like that, Gabriel, I wasn’t. That’s the truth.”

“Do you not want a baby?”

“I—I don’t know if this is a good time.”

“Seriously? That’s your answer?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Of course it is!” Gabriel exclaimed, the sudden volume to his words causing Fiona to flinch, while her heart took up an uneasy sort of pounding against her ribcage, “How could you even ask that, Fi?”

“How could you even ask if I want a baby? Now, of all times—”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“What isn’t? We’re—Gabriel, we aren’t married, yet.”

“But we’re going to be.”

“And what happens when I am pregnant? What then?” Fiona demanded, her palms pressing flat against the wall in an attempt at steadying herself, though the effort was largely wasted whether she wished for such a thing or not, “Everything’s fine again?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Right. Because men who are completely fine with their fiancé routinely talk about their sex lives with their own mother.”

As soon as she said the words, she regretted them, her teeth digging into her lower lip as she waited for the mere millisecond it took for her fiancé to register the slip, and react accordingly. In the blink of an eye, Fiona found that she could not breathe, the pressure of Gabriel’s hand closing around her throat causing her eyes to blow wide in a sort of instinctive panic. Of course, that had no impact on Gabriel’s apparent ire, his face mere inches away from her own. And even the fact that one of her hands had come up to scrabble at his arm for purchase did not seem to be enough to deter him, the pressure of his hand forcing her back until the back of her head thudded against the wall, and her eyes began to water with unshed tears.

“My mother is only trying to help us. That’s more than I can say for yours.”

A ragged gasp was the only sound Fiona seemed capable of as Gabriel finally released her, and took a step back, her hand instinctively rising to her throat as she struggled to get enough air to her starving lungs. Every muscle in her body was trembling, wanting so badly to collapse. But regardless of that desire, Fiona forced herself to remain standing, her free pressing against the wall at her back, while she waited for Gabriel’s next move. In truth, she half expected him to strike her, or curl his fingers around her throat again. But what she did not expect was for him to close the distance between them once again so that his lips could crash against her own with a startling ferocity, the low growl that left his throat causing a shiver to roll down her spine while she brought her hands up to rest, palms flat, upon his chest.

Why did he always have this effect on her, where no matter how badly she wanted to shove him away, she never seemed capable, whether he had treated her poorly in the moments leading up to a show of affection, or not?  
It was an answer she could not come up with an answer for, despite how hard she may have wanted to try, and so Fiona did the only thing she could do, in that moment, her arms shifting to wind around Gabriel’s neck while she pressed herself against him as close as she could get. One of his hands had fisted in her hair, the slight tug he gave the locks provoking a slight whimper before she could stop it. Of course, it should have come as no surprise that her fiancé would use the sound as leave to continue, his tongue slipping inside of her suddenly opened mouth whether she wanted it to, or not. 

The problem was, she wanted it to.

Somewhat steeled by the thought, Fiona allowed herself to get lost in the moment, until she realized Gabriel was breaking away from the kiss to spin her around until she faced the wall, his hands tugging at her pants until he had succeeded in undoing the button and yanking them down her hips until she could step out of them and kick them to the side. His teeth had taken up the act of nipping at her neck, while his fingers bit into the skin of her hips. And although she knew that sex should be the very last thing on her mind, Fiona would have been a liar to pretend that she did not want nothing more than to simply let things proceed, her hips pressing back towards her fiancé’s as one of her hands reached around to hold his mouth to the skin of her neck in the same motion.

Hating herself for the desperation that was so inherent in her behavior, Fiona still somehow managed to force that feeling aside in the wake of the sudden realization that one of Gabriel’s hands had snaked around to rest against her stomach, the edges of his fingertips slipping below the waistband of her underwear. For a moment, she held her breath, as if poised on the edge of a cliff, waiting for just the right sensation to tip her over.

And then she could feel Gabriel’s fingers exactly where she wanted them, a broken whimper leaving her parted lips as she felt his teeth close around her pulse, and one finger pressed down, and in…

“Gabe—”

“Don’t,” Her fiancé interrupted, hot breath gusting against the skin of her neck as he removed his hand from her panties in favor of shoving them down her legs to follow the same trajectory as her jeans, “Just—don’t talk.”

Powerless to do anything but comply, Fiona bit down on her lower lip as the sound of Gabriel unbuckling his belt reached her ears, her hips shifting almost of their own accord as she waited for the inevitable. She wanted this, even though she shouldn’t—as though the act of allowing Gabriel to do this would heal something that had crept up between them before she could even make an attempt at understanding it. And if fixing things meant keeping her mouth shut, then she would do exactly that, at least for now.

She would do whatever it took to make sure Gabriel never felt the need to almost strangle her again.

With that thought in mind, Fiona simply waited, the sensation of Gabriel’s hand biting into her hip again provoking a low moan, while her head dropped back to rest upon his shoulder. It was easier to simply make herself pliant. To accept whatever he would give her, instead of wanting more. So, when she wanted to flinch away as he entered her in a startlingly rough thrust, Fiona forced herself to stay put, instead, her breath whooshing out of her lungs as all hope of whatever small bit of gentleness he had shown before removing her panties faded away.

Placing both hands upon the wall to steady herself, Fiona stifled a cry as her fiancé set an almost punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers, and causing her entire body to shudder in response. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was a pleasurable shudder or not, because her mind was far too caught up in the act of hoping that as soon as he found satisfaction, her slip ups of the day just might be forgotten. 

If she could just go to bed with him in peace after this, she would count that as a victory and be done with it.

In that frame of mind, Fiona redirected her attention to the act of seeming more responsive, the slight shiver she gave as she realized Gabriel had snuck a hand around to reach under her shirt so that he could make a grab for her breast at least a little genuine in spite of her lingering apprehension. He seemed content to use the current hold he had on her to tug her backwards until she bumped against his chest. The act allowed his pace to quicken, a ragged gasp escaping her lips as the slight shift in position ignited nerve-endings she had thought would be ignored. Unbidden, she felt herself pushing back against him, though her movement was limited with how he had crowded her against the wall. But just as she had begun to recognize the tell-tale tightening of her muscles that signified, rather mercifully, that her fiancé would not be the only one to get any pleasure from this coupling, Fiona felt the sharp exhalation Gabriel made against her neck as he reached his peak, his movements slowly stilling, and robbing her of the possibility of reaching the same end before she could reconcile herself to it at all.

Damn it…

As soon as he could, it seemed, Gabriel was pulling away, leaving Fiona standing against the wall, while her breathing slowed, and she summoned the wherewithal to turn slightly in search of her panties and jeans. Having located them, she stooped to pick them up, managing to slide back into the panties, though she abandoned the idea of replacing her jeans in favor of turning to head back towards the foyer so that she might venture upstairs in search of pajamas. Before she could fully set about doing so, however, she found herself stopped in the act by the sudden sensation of Gabriel’s hand reaching for her arm and latching on almost as tightly as he had grabbed her neck what felt like mere moments before, her blue eyes meeting his in open curiosity for a moment before he spoke.

“What happened at dinner—that will never happen again, do you understand?”

“I—I do,” Fiona replied, resisting the urge to give the reply she truly felt was warranted, though her lips thinned into a line for a moment before she gathered the wherewithal to go on, “It won’t. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Now get yourself cleaned up. Can’t have you getting blood from your arm on the new bedsheets, right?”

“Right.”

Because the worst thing that could possibly happen in their life would be blood on the bedsheets…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	9. Interrogation

Anthony J. Crowley approached the familiar door of the building he had lived in for several years now with an air of almost casual indifference, one hand reaching for the door while the other remained tucked inside the pocket of his trousers. Once the door had opened, he sauntered inside, prepared to venture to the elevator that would deliver him to the uppermost floor, and his flat in mere moments. But before he could even reach the shining glass doors of the elevator itself, he found himself distracted by the familiarly warm voice of his landlady, a slight smirk drawing at the corner of his mouth as he turned on a heel to face her while she bustled out of the office with arms thrown wide as though expecting an embrace.

“Ah, Anthony dear, there you are. I was wondering when you’d be coming back.”

“Watching my comings and goings again, Madame Tracy?”

“Well you can hardly blame me, love,” The older woman chastised, the amusement in her tone removing any possibility of her words serving as anything other than a warm reminder that she looked after him, even if he did not feel that he needed her to, “What with your line of work—”

“My line of work,” Anthony repeated, cocking a brow at the woman stood before him, her flame red hair almost as vibrant as his own, “Someone other than me might take offense at that, you know.”

“Then it’s a good thing for me I’m not saying it to anyone other than you. Did you eat your supper yet, love?”

“No, Mum, I didn’t.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Madame Tracy blushed, swatting at the shoulder of the man who had come to be one of her favorite tenants, even if his cheek made her flush like a schoolgirl every single time, “I hardly think I deserve that title, dear.”

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not, Anthony Crowley.”

“Maybe I’ve forgotten,” Crowley teased, looping an arm around the older woman’s shoulders, and drawing her against his side, even though he knew that would give her every reason to continue in her crusade against his poor eating habits as a result.

“Goodness, but you’re skin and bone. Why don’t you nip into my flat after you’ve taken care of your guest, and I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

“My guest?”

“Oh—yes, dear, there was a young woman that came looking for you around an hour or so past. She told me she was your friend, so I didn’t see the harm in letting her into your flat with the spare key.”

“This woman—what did she look like?” Crowley inquired, suddenly wary at the prospect of someone else he may or may not know having free reign over his flat while he was otherwise engaged. Of course, he knew Madame Tracy well enough to realize that she would not willingly allow anyone in that could actually prove dangerous, whether or not she had a true grasp of what it was he really did for a living. But even with that knowledge, he would have been a fool to simply walk inside, without at least attempting to show some modicum of caution, amber eyes searching the landlady’s features while he waited for her reply that would aid in determining his next move.

“Oh, she was quite lovely, dear. Blonde hair—very well-kept. Had a bit of a mouth on her though, if you don’t mind my saying so—”

“Freya.”

“She didn’t give me her name, love,” Madame Tracy confessed, her brow furrowing as she came to the realization that perhaps she had made a mistake in letting the young woman in, only to find that the young man standing before her was suddenly smiling, as though she had just given him the best news he could have hoped for.

“She didn’t have to. I suppose I should go take care of her—before she manages to burn down the entire building out of boredom.”

“Well that would be something I think we’d all rather avoid.”

“Then we’re agreed,” Crowley surmised, stooping to place a kiss upon the landlady’s cheek, and smirking as the act brought an almost immediate blush to her cheeks in response, “That offer for dinner still on the table?”

“Of course, dear. And you’re welcome to bring your lady friend too, if you’d like.”

“Careful what you wish for, love. You may just find yourself eaten out of house and home.”

Of all people, Anthony knew well enough that while Freya Dearborn may look like the model of the perfect lady, in reality, she was anything but…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“You’re late.”

“Come in, Freya. Make yourself at home,” Crowley quipped, tossing his keys on the table standing beside the door, and nudging that door closed with one foot as he took in the shadowy figure of the woman seated on the sofa at the end of the hall that led to the den, “Thought I’d taught you about the benefits of waiting for an invitation, love.”

“Some say I’m a slow learner.”

“Apparently.”

“You know you love me,” Freya retorted, blinking as her companion flicked on the light switch just before the entrance to the den, and crossing one leg over the other at the knees with an almost angelic smile etched upon her lips, “What’s up?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“And yet you never do—”

“Only because you have an annoying habit of beating me to the punch,” Anthony replied, stepping over his unexpected guest’s crossed legs, and flopping down beside her on the sofa not long thereafter, “One of the many qualities you possess that seem determined to drive me insane.”

“Shut up.”

“How kind.”

“I know I’m kind. That’s more than can be said of you at the moment.”

“Do tell.”

“For starters, a kind person would have already offered me a drink,” Freya suggested, her saccharine smile never once wavering from her lips as she cocked a brow in obvious expectation, and folded both arms across her chest, “And then he would probably tell me about his day.”

“Did we get married, and I’ve already forgotten? Because your demands are starting to sound more like a wife,” Crowley remarked, hauling himself off of the sofa cushion just in time to avoid the well-aimed shove to his shoulder that Freya had attempted in retaliation, and moving towards the abundantly stocked liquor cabinet instead while she replied.

“God, no. That’s gross.”

“Gross. Is that all you have in your inexhaustible lexicon?”

“Arsehole.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Keep talking like that, and you’ll force me to kick your ass all over this flat, again,” Freya threatened, the obvious humor in the reply tempering any potential for ill will, though she did try her best to school her expression into something far sterner than her usual sly smile, “Don’t think I won’t do it.”

“If you even think about trying to do that, you won’t hear a single thing about my day.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun?”

“Nope. Never,” Crowley assured, pausing in the act of fishing two glasses out of the liquor cabinet to turn and send a wink towards the young woman still ensconced upon his sofa as though she owned it, “I’m a riot, love. Everyone knows that.”

“Sounds like someone’s full of himself.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”

“True,” Freya agreed, watching as Anthony poured generous helpings of whiskey into each glass, before replacing the bottle on top of the cabinet, and sauntering back over to hand her the requested beverage before resuming his own seat beside her and taking a long sip of the liquid without even a wince as it burned its way down his throat, “So. Do I need to ask you again?”

“Ask me what?”

“About your day, idiot.”

“Oh, that will encourage me to tell you everything you want to know,” Anthony chided, shifting to place one boot-clad foot upon Freya’s thigh, and moving the other to join it not long thereafter, “Don’t you know honey draws more flies than vinegar, love?”

“I don’t give a damn about flies. I want intel.”

“Pushy as ever, I see.”

“And you are evasive as ever. Spill,” Freya demanded, shoving Anthony’s feet away from her thigh, and swinging her own legs up so that her feet rested flat in front of her upon the cushion while her back leaned against the arm of the sofa, itself, “What the hell happened out there?”

“Nothing much.”

“That’s not the story I heard.”

“Would you rather tell it, then?”

“Hell no. It’s so much more entertaining to hear you telling tales.”

“Then perhaps you might put some effort into letting me finish, love,” Crowley said, quirking a brow as Freya made a rather obvious show of rolling her eyes, and taking another sip of his whiskey before going on, “Had a meeting with the big boss, same as usual. Hastur seemed to miss you.”

“Ugh. When will that lump take a hint?”

“Probably never. He’s always been a sucker for pretty girls—”

“Stay on track, Anthony. I need details,” Freya cut in, ignoring the familiar jab about Hastur and his apparent obsession with her in favor of redirecting her friend back to the matter at hand, “Focus.”

“What the bloody hell do you think I’m trying to do?” Anthony griped, once again lifting his foot to rest upon the sofa, and suppressing a grin when he realized Freya had begun to eye the foot suspiciously as though expecting him to use her as a stool for a second time, “Someone won’t let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not. But go on. Or you’ll have to pour me another drink before you’re even halfway through the story.”

“Yes, boss,” Crowley began, throwing Freya a mock salute, and once again ignoring her subsequent roll of the eyes in favor of setting in on the relaying of the day’s events once more, “Saw Shadwell’s replacement, as well.”

“This one every bit as much of a nut as he was?”

“Mm—not really. She actually seemed rather—”

“Wait. Wait, she?” Freya interrupted, sitting up a little straighter, and crossing her legs beneath her so that she could rest both of her elbows on her knees with the still partially filled glass clutched in both hands before her, “Shadwell’s protégé is a girl?”

“Woman, actually. Don’t think the police make a habit of employing minors, love.”

“Whatever. What was she like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Actually, I would. If there’s a new player in the game, I think we owe it to ourselves to know exactly what they’re capable of. Unless, of course, you want people going around talking about how the boss’ right hand man let himself get seduced by a pretty face.”

“Hang on a minute—who said anything about getting seduced?” Anthony asked, glancing at Freya as though suddenly questioning her sanity, though her sudden satisfied expression did not waver in the slightest in response, “M’ not getting seduced.”

“Right. Then why are you blushing?”

“M’not.”

“Sure you’re not. And I’m the Princess Leia.”

“Really? Because I’m not really seeing the resemblance.”

“It’s called sarcasm, Anthony. Look it up,” Freya huffed, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, and leaning over to set the empty glass upon the coffee table before going on, “Deny it all you like. Someone who’s known you as long as I have ought to know when you’re off your game.”

“Well thank you so much for your candor, Freya. I have no idea what I would ever do without you.”

“Damn straight. Someone’s got to be around to keep you in line.”

“And just what the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what it says. Or are you trying to say you don’t go walking around like nothing can ever touch you, until it does, and you end up getting burned?”

“When was the last time that ever happened?” Crowley inquired, dragging a hand through shoulder-length hair in an effort at pulling it away from his brow, and resting his head upon his hand once his elbow was safely ensconced on the back of the sofa, “Give me one example.”

“Do you really want me to go there?”

“If only so I can prove you wrong.”

“Fine. Carmine,” Freya began, her tone as she said the name almost venomous, even as she watched Anthony’s features carefully for any indication that she had gone too far. Some small part of her truly did regret bringing the woman up, particularly as Crowley’s involvement with her had gone south far faster than either of them had ever believed possible. But the more logical part knew that if she wanted to avoid watching her friend make the same mistake twice, certain exceptions must be made, no matter how painful they might be…

She knew Anthony would forgive her for the memories just the mention of Carmine’s name might bring, but if she knowingly stood by while he got himself entangled with another woman who would only betray him for her own gain, she would never forgive herself.

“She was a one off,” Anthony assured, just one look at Freya’s features showing him that she was not at all convinced by his attempt at pushing the implication of what she had just said to the side, no matter how much he may have wished that she was, “You know that.”

“And yet she still came eerily close to bringing you to your knees.”

“Y—yeah, but she didn’t.”

“It sure looked a little different from the perspective of the woman scraping you off the floor of a bar every night until you finally got over her.”

“I never asked you to do that, Freya.”

“No, but I did. I did because that’s what we do. We pick each other up and push each other to keep going even when it hurts like hell,” Freya insisted, aware of the fact that Anthony was now avidly staring into the bottom of his whiskey glass, instead of looking her in the eye, and yet choosing to keep going, regardless, “And I’ll be damned if I stand by and let that happen to you again.”

“It’s not going to happen to me again, love. This girl—”

“I thought you said she was a woman.”

“Fine. Woman,” Crowley corrected, swirling the contents of his glass as though the sight were the most fascinating thing in the world, in order to avoid having a reason to risk seeing Freya’s likely skeptical expression first-hand, “She’s not like that.”

“And you picked that up after what? Two seconds with her?”

“More like five.”

“Smart-arse.”

“You started it.”

“Okay. Maybe I did,” Freya admitted, leaning forward to place her hand over her friend’s as she realized he was using the act of fiddling with his glass as a distraction, despite the fact that she could clearly see a muscle jumping in his jaw to bely the tension he so clearly felt, “But you still haven’t convinced me that this replacement for Shadwell is someone we can trust.”

“I get the feeling I’ll never be able to convince you of that, love.”

“Why don’t you try me?”

“She’s different, Freya. S’all there is to it. Not like other cops.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. Didn’t have to.”

“Because she was pretty—”

“Because she wasn’t jaded,” Anthony countered, finally lifting his gaze to glance at Freya directly, despite the fact that her expression seemed hardly satisfied with his response, “Listen, if you don’t trust me, you could always go meet with her, yourself.”

“Sorry. Pretty women aren’t really my type.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Shut up,” Freya chastised, removing her hand from its position atop Crowley’s so that she could swat at his knee in retaliation, even in spite of the pout he almost immediately donned as a result, “You know what I mean.”

“You’ll never know unless you see her for yourself.”

“I think I’ll take my chances missing out on that particular opportunity.”

“Scared she’ll be prettier than you?”

“As if that’s even possible.”

“Now who’s acting like they’re full of themselves?” Anthony joked, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa to avoid Freya’s retaliatory swat, and hauling himself up to stand so that he might head towards the liquor cabinet once again for a refill, “Are we agreed, then?”

“Agreed on what?”

“That we’re tabling this discussion for now, and getting drunk instead.”

“Is that your way of begging off, now that you know I’m in the right?” Freya surmised, grinning as she watched her friend turn from the cabinet he stood before, to give her a look that would have made anyone who didn’t know him suddenly recall that they would be better suited taking care of business elsewhere, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Awfully nice of you.”

“I thought so.”

“Of course you did,” Crowley began, one corner of his mouth turning up in a smile as he filled his glass, and caught the second one that Freya tossed his way with a surprising ease so that he could refill it, as well, “I never said anything about you being right.”

“It was implied,” Freya returned, grinning openly as she watched her friend turn back with the newly filled glasses, and leaning forward to accept her own so that he could take the seat beside her once again, “You’re really sure about this, then? This—girl that thinks she can play with the big boys?”

“As sure as I can be. And I thought we were tabling the discussion in favor of getting drunk. Madame Tracy seems to think she needs to feed us tonight.”

“Ah—well, I suppose certain sacrifices must be made, especially if she’s been experimenting in the kitchen again.”

“Agreed.”

With the matter settled, at least for the time-being, Anthony found himself rather more than a little relieved that Freya appeared agreeable to the idea of dropping the subject entirely, her attention turning towards the drink in her hand as she took another sip, and closed her eyes around a contented hum. Of course, he understood her concern, particularly as the two of them had a rather significant history of looking out for one another when judgment became questionable. But still, he felt he had every reason to believe that the young detective he met with would not turn out to be as duplicitous as Freya seemed to suspect.

He could only hope that if his friend did get the chance to meet her, she would keep the metaphorical claws retracted for long enough to find that out for herself.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, Crowley found himself more than a little surprised to find Freya eyeing him with something not all that far from suspicion, for a moment, before she was once again placing her glass on the coffee table so that she could focus solely upon him as she spoke.

“I’m going to let you run with this one on your own, at least for now,” She began, reaching up to tug at the ponytail that held her hair back away from her face, and freeing the locks so that she could shake them out around her shoulders, instead.

“But don’t you think for one second that I won’t kick her ass if she hurts you.”

Whether or not Anthony trusted this stranger, Freya would be damned if she allowed anyone to ruin him like Carmine had…

After he had saved her life more times than she could count, she knew she didn’t owe him anything less.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	10. Hard Truths

“So—you survived.”

“I did,” Fiona confirmed, taking a sip of the coffee held tightly in one hand, and frowning as she observed the activities of those milling about the site of the shooting she had been involved in the night before, “You sound so surprised.”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping you’d end up giving those pompous jerks you’re going to be calling in-laws what for,” Anathema confessed, aware of the slight roll of the eyes that Fiona gave in response, and yet still noting that her companion appeared to be struggling to restrain a laugh, regardless, “Though I suppose keeping up appearances is important with a crowd like that.”

“You have no idea.”

“That good, then?”

“Better,” Fiona quipped, once again downing some of the coffee in the travel mug she held, and tilting her head to the side to attempt stretching some sore muscles in her neck before going on, “You’ll never guess what the topic of conversation was.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

“Fertility.”

“Seriously?” Anathema gasped, observing her friend’s expression carefully, and frowning as she realized that there was nothing but absolute truth apparent therein, “Good God, Fi, that’s—that’s awful, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why?”

“Because you have absolutely nothing to do with it,” Fiona supplied, finally turning to glance at her partner, and donning what she hoped would be a somewhat reassuring smile before going on, “And because I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t cross my mind on occasion, as well.”

“But you can’t be blaming yourself,” Anathema pressed, stepping closer to Fiona in favor of standing directly before her, so that her brown eyes could latch onto Fiona’s blue ones before the other woman had a chance to look away, “Fiona, you can’t—”

“I’m not.”

“Why am I not convinced?”

“I have no idea.”

“I call bullshit.”

“Call it whatever you like,” Fiona said, exhaling around a sigh as she did her best to reach forward and squeeze her friend’s forearm, before moving around her to glance at the officers milling around before them once again, “Selena can say whatever she wants. I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What do you care about, then?” Anathema asked, moving to stand at Fiona’s side, and watching as one of the men who had been perusing the rubble a few feet away began to approach, “If you’re going to expect me to believe that you’re not bothered by what that witch said to you, you’ve got to give me something to go on, instead.”

“I care about finding out exactly why Sandolphon was sent to clear the building, and yet those men who tried to kill us got in, anyway.”

“You think he missed something on purpose?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Fiona admitted, fiddling with the still-warm coffee cup held between both hands, and directing her own gaze towards the man who approached them in the same motion, “But we need to find out what happened, either way.”

“Are you prepared to confront Sandolphon if what we find ends up proving him guilty in some way?”

“I don’t see how we’ll have much of a choice. We can’t just let him get away with it, if he is.”

“And Gabriel?”

“What about Gabriel?”

“Sandolphon is his partner,” Anathema began, aware of the slight stiffening that became so apparent in Fiona’s frame, and seeking to alleviate some of that tension by placing a hand upon her partner’s arm, “If we suspect him, we might be wise to suspect Gabriel as well.”

“If we have to do that, we have to. We need answers no matter what we learn as a result.”

“Okay. Well, if you ever decide maybe you want to give this over to someone else—”

“I won’t.”

“But if you ever do—”

“I won’t, Ana,” Fiona repeated, hoping that the determination she forced into the words would be readily apparent, whether Anathema chose to recognize it for herself, or not, and turning her attention towards the approaching man, instead, before going on, “What did you find?”

“Not much to go on,” Jimmy replied, nodding by way of providing greeting to Anathema, before returning his gaze to Fiona in favor of elaborating further, “Of course, forensics is looking into identifying the men you managed to injure, but—”

“But they’ve found nothing, yet.”

“No. Not yet.”

“I suppose it would make it far too easy if they had,” Fiona confessed, lifting one hand to drag through dark hair, and exhaling to release some of the pent up tension that had been plaguing her ever since the first shot had been fired the evening before, “Too much good luck, and all that.”

“You really believe there is such a thing?”

“How can I not?”

“Back when I was your partner, you seemed quite a bit more optimistic.”

“Times are changing, Jimmy. You know that.”

“Do I, though?” The young man persisted, shifting just a bit on his feet so that he could glance back at the other men and women still working at gathering up anything that might serve as potential evidence, despite the fact that some sort of gut instinct told him there would not be much to be found, “I’ve never been much for believing in popular slogans.”

“It’s not just a slogan if it’s the truth.”

“That’s really the line you’re going with?”

“It is,” Anathema interjected, her brow furrowing at not only Fiona’s apparent trend towards the pessimistic, but also the seeming insistence her former partner from her days as a beat cop seemed to possess to persuade her otherwise, “And I think we all know there are much more pressing things to deal with than personal belief systems, at the moment.”

“You’re right, of course. I suppose you’ll be headed back to the precinct, to see if your friend in the forensics department has found anything, himself?”

“In a bit,” Fiona agreed, glancing towards Anathema for a moment, and registering the small nod her partner gave in acknowledgement of the unspoken thought that had just crossed her mind, though she had not yet managed to say it out loud. The two of them had always had an uncanny ability to read one another’s thoughts, even without giving verbal confirmation. And although Fiona was still reluctant to say what she was thinking to anyone save the woman stood beside her, she knew she owed it to Jimmy to be truthful as well, if they were to have any chance at getting to the bottom of whatever was going on sooner rather than later.

“If I tell you something, Jimmy, I need to know you’ll keep it between the three of us.”

“Of course.”

“When is your next night off?”

“Tomorrow,” Jimmy said, his brow furrowing as he struggled to hide his disappointment that what he had hoped would be a forthcoming reply was now appearing to be anything but, “Why can’t you just tell me now?”

“Because I have no idea if I’m right or not. And if I am, we can’t risk anyone else overhearing.”

“Alright, then. Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll text you,” Fiona informed, aware of the skeptical expression that had taken over her former partner’s features, and hoping he would not write her off as having gone off the deep end before learning exactly what she had begun to suspect, “You’re right, though. Ana and I do need to head back to the precinct.”

“I suppose I’ll just wait for your text, then?”

“That would probably be a good idea,” Anathema suggested, managing a faint smile for the young man standing before them, and then turning back towards Fiona as she spoke once again, “Shall we go?”

“I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” The dark-haired young woman assured, sparing a look towards her partner to plead with the other woman to simply take her at her word, so that she could remain behind for just a moment longer with the man she trusted more than almost anyone else. Though it was apparent that Anathema was reluctant to do so, she did begin to move back towards where she had parked their car upon arriving earlier that day, only one final glance passing between her, and the duo remaining behind before she had turned from them for good. And after ensuring that she had ventured far enough from where they stood to remain out of earshot, Fiona turned back to face Jimmy, stepping forward to ensure he could hear her even though her voice had dropped to a tone just barely above that above a whisper.

“I need you to be careful, Jimmy. Something isn’t right about this entire thing, and until we find out what that is, none of us are safe.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this after sending your partner away?” Jimmy questioned, apprehension causing a tingle of something not all that far from real concern to trace its way down his spine, though he did what he could to keep his expression neutral in spite of it, “Is—is she one of the ones we can’t trust?”

“Absolutely not. I trust her with my life.”

“Then why—”

“If I’m right, and all of my fears aren’t just proof that I’m losing my mind, the more people we gather together to hold secret conversations, the more suspicion we may earn as a result. Jimmy, we—we can’t risk that.”

“Okay. Okay, I understand,” The officer promised, reaching forward to grasp for Fiona’s hand, and finding himself surprised that she did not immediately pull away, even though she flinched as soon as full contact had been made, “But can you promise me one thing in return?”

“What’s that?”

“I need to know that you’re going to be careful, too, Fiona. We didn’t come all this way to make stupid mistakes, now.”

“No, you’re right. We didn’t,” Fiona consented, returning the squeeze that Jimmy had given her hand with one of her own, before dropping her hand back to her side, and squaring her shoulders before preparing to depart.

“And I won’t have it said that either one of us messed up by doing so.”

Whether she truly wanted to drag her former partner into this potential fight, or not, Fiona would have been a liar to pretend that she was not more than a little relieved that he was at her side, anyway.

After all, no one ever said that more people on your side ever hurt anyone’s cause…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“The Devils. Are you serious?”

“I really wish that I wasn’t,” Newt began, lifting a hand to push his glasses just a bit further up the bridge of his nose, and regarding both Fiona and Anathema with an expression that was so sorrowful it had prompted the both of them to feel almost immediate pity for him in response, “Fingerprint analysis confirmed it.”

“But why would they even be involved? It’s not like we’ve done anything to provoke them.”

“Unless maybe we have,” Anathema cut in, aware of Fiona’s startled expression that came about in response to her words, and glancing back towards Newt for just long enough to realize he was watching her attentively as well, before going on, “We are investigating a murder in their territory, in addition to the one on the East Side.”

“And Michael said there might be a connection,” Fiona supplied, catching on to Anathema’s apparent suspicion, just as she had noticed Newt watching her companion rather avidly, as well, “Could you find anything from these new—sources—that was similar to the previous murder?”

“Not yet. But I—I could look, and let you know.”

“That would be great, Newt. Thank you.”

“Any—any time,” Newt replied, once again allowing his attention to drift towards Anathema as he became aware of the fact that she had been eyeing him curiously ever since her partner had made her request, “Was there—was there something you wanted to add, Anathema?”

“No. No, not really. But it occurs to me that if they attacked us at the place where the body of that poor girl was dumped, and if we already have proof that she wasn’t killed there—”

“Then they might have known that, and were trying to keep us from finding out.”

“Precisely,” Anathema agreed, pleased that her partner had caught on to the particular line her thoughts had taken, even though she was reluctant to consider that what they were working to solve was perhaps more complicated than a single one of them knew off-hand, “But that still doesn’t tell us why they would care one way or another. It’s not usually in the nature of a gang to cover their tracks when they’re trying to make a statement.”

“What statement could they possibly have to make to the families of two young girls, with seemingly no connection between them?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Fiona replied, managing a faint smile for Newt’s benefit as she took in the obvious vehemence behind his inquiry, and found herself once again marveling at the fact that, whether he was fearful of what they might find in their investigation, or not, he appeared determined to press on, regardless, “That’s why we need you to try and find something that links those two girls, no matter what.”

“Okay. I—I’ll try my best,” Newt stated, glancing down at the papers that had been strewn across the tabletop resting between them, and swallowing as if to steel his nerves before glancing back towards his two companions once more, “I’ll work all night, if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that, Newt.”

“Why not? The two of you probably will.”

“Well, if we do, we’ll be sure to get a jumbo cup of coffee, just for you,” Anathema teased, her expression turning from one of good humor, to shock, as Newt’s cheeks turned a rather brilliant shade of pink in response to her words, “And maybe a donut or two?”

“Is that your way of—of suggesting I fall into the typical stereotype of anyone on the police force?”

“Well, technically, no.”

“I think what Anathema meant was that we wouldn’t expect you to pull an all-nighter with us, without providing you some of the sustenance we take part in ourselves,” Fiona interjected, suppressing her would-be amusement over the goings-on between her two friends, in favor of going on, “Misery loves company, after all.”

“I—yes. Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Right. Well, now that we’ve got that settled, I think the two of us had best head back upstairs before Michael comes looking for us, herself,” Anathema offered, catching the significant questioning glance that Fiona sent her way as a result of her apparent desire to get out of the basement, and finding herself abundantly grateful that her partner had no comment to offer on the matter, herself, “You’ll let one of us know if you find anything else?”

“I will.”

“Good. Well, then, we’ll just be off.”

Without another word, Anathema turned and headed towards the door of the forensics lab, leaving Fiona to exchange a slightly baffled look with Newt before the other woman followed along in her wake. It would have been a lie to pretend that Fiona did not suspect why her partner had suddenly become so flustered, though she was wise enough to avoid mentioning the topic at the moment, knowing that Anathema would only use the case they were working as an excuse to ignore the matter, entirely. And so, in spite of the small bit of amusement she had gained, Fiona forced her attention away from it, at least for the time-being, her thoughts once again drifting back to the task at hand as the two of them headed back upstairs to get back to work before anyone could dare to accuse them of not taking things seriously.

Amusement and more pleasant thoughts aside, Fiona would be damned if she allowed anyone to think that she was not doing her job.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Some unknown amount of time later, Fiona sat ensconced at her desk, her teeth chewing at her thumbnail as she flicked through the images Newt had sent to her email account, and tried not to focus upon the fact that her suspicion had, at least for the moment, been proven correct. The murders were, in fact connected, and that meant that The Devils had been behind them both, just as they had been behind the attack on her, Anathema and Newt the night before. And, almost as soon as the thought had cemented itself within her mind, Fiona found herself wincing as a sudden pain began to throb in her arm where she had been shot, her brow furrowing as she tried to shove aside the foolish notion that the wound had begun to demand attention because of the particular line of her thoughts.

If she truly did not want her colleagues to think she had gone every bit as batty as they already seemed to believe Shadwell was, Fiona knew that she had to put a stop to such thoughts before they took hold, entirely.

Frowning as she glanced away from the computer screen, and realized that now she was, well and truly alone, Fiona stifled the tremor of apprehension that rippled through her frame in response to the discovery, her attention turning towards shutting the computer down and preparing to depart so that she would not risk the ire of her employer by earning too many hours in overtime. In truth, she had hardly noticed as everyone else began to leave for the day, only diverting her attention for long enough to accept Anathema’s offer to stay, and turning it down as she knew her partner had a long-standing dinner date with her mother that night. But now that she was, in fact, on her own, the young woman was possessed with a desire to leave, herself, a slight shiver passing through her frame as she rose from her seat and reached for her jacket and her purse, before heading towards the door, and shutting the lights off at the switch as she went.

Once she had closed, and locked the doors behind her, and made her way through the main atrium towards the front exit, Fiona found herself slowing her pace just a bit as a sudden idea came to mind, her teeth worrying at her lower lip for a moment as she rummaged in her purse for a moment in search of her cell phone. It had occurred to her that, in light of what she had recently discovered, that perhaps Shadwell’s informant would have some means of ferreting out the significance of a gang’s involvement in two seemingly unrelated and unnecessary murders, even if that gang was one that rivaled his own. And in spite of the apprehension she might feel over being the one to reach out, first, Fiona was still more reluctant to risk not exploring every possible outlet for information on account of her pride and nerves, her lips pressing together for just a moment before her fingers curled around her phone, and withdrew it from her purse in the same motion.

Scrolling through the recent texts, it was not long until she found the one she had been searching for, her mouth turning up at the corners in spite of the seriousness of her mood as she took note of the message Crowley had apparently decided to send to his own device when they met at the diner to begin the terms of their arrangement. In spite of what she may have expected, she was surprised to see that the entire message consisted of a single cartoon emoji of a snake, neon-green, with yellow eyes and the red of a forked tongue poking out from its tiny mouth. And before she could lose her nerve, Fiona found herself typing out a quick message of her own, before hitting ‘send’, and stowing the device back inside her purse, her footsteps carrying her the remainder of the way towards the exit so that she might step through those doors, and head off towards her car beneath a sky full of stars.

She could only hope that Crowley would receive the message, and agree to discuss her request in person sooner, rather than later, or they may very well be looking at still more bodies to add to the ones they already had.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	11. Breath Before the Plunge

Grimacing as the sound of a shrill beeping cut in through the haze brought about by the alcohol and Madame Tracy's surprisingly tolerable attempt at making dinner, Anthony Crowley pried one eye open and craned his neck around to glance at the coffee table, a low groan escaping as he realized the sound was coming from his phone. In truth, he was half-tempted to ignore the device, the weight of Freya's body leaning against his own on the sofa already starting to lull him back to sleep, despite his lingering curiosity over exactly who it was that may have initiated contact with him at such an hour as this. But, regardless of that desire, Crowley forced himself to nudge gently at Freya's sleeping frame until she had slid from her position with her head resting on his shoulder, to a more haphazard pose resting horizontal upon the sofa cushions, one hand reaching to grab for his phone before it could make another sound and risk waking her, while the other tugged through disheveled red hair in the same motion.

A glance at the glowing screen brought an unbidden smile to his lips as soon as he realized who it was that had sent the message that woke him in the first place, his eyes sliding back to where Freya still slept on the sofa for a moment before he was rising with a muted pop of protest from his spine, and padding into the kitchen to grab a glass of water while reading the message firsthand…

Need to talk. Question about the case. Text when you're free?

"That was fast," Crowley mused, a grin once again tugging at his lips as he turned to lean back against the countertop and mulled over how best to reply. Truthfully, he was more than a little surprised that the young detective had beaten him to the punch when it came to trying to set up a second meet, as he had honestly expected that he would be the one reaching out, instead. But regardless of whether or not events had transpired as he had imagined, Crowley would have been a liar to pretend the reality of things did not amuse him…

Though he hardly knew her at all, the prospect of teasing the poor young woman was far too tempting to resist.

Missing me already, pet?

The soft whoosh of the incoming text mere seconds after his own had caused a soft chuckle to echo in the otherwise silent kitchen of Crowley's flat, his posture shifting just a bit where he leaned against the countertop while amber eyes remained glued to the glowing of the screen. Although he obviously could not see the detective's expression, he had every reason to believe his response might just have made her smile as well.

Or at least, he hoped it had, since the nature of her reply seemed to indicate as much, whether that assumption might mean he was taking too much for granted, or not.

I never said that.

It was implied.

Oh really?

Really. When did you want to meet?

In the brief pause between his inquiry, and the ensuing reply from the young woman who had initiated the conversation, Anthony placed his phone on top of the counter so that he could actually obtain the glass of water he had ventured into the kitchen for in the first place, his gaze returning to the momentarily dormant device every so often until the screen lit up once more. For a moment or two, he considered switching the device to silent, in order to avoid waking the blonde woman still sleeping on the sofa in the den. But before he had the chance to do just that, Crowley found himself distracted by the nature of the reply flashing across the phone screen, one brow lifting as he read, and pondered over what to type in return.

Free all weekend. Up to you.

"S' awfully open-ended, love—"

How's Sunday at three o'clock sound?

Fine by me. Any preference as to where?

Unable to resist the sudden urge to persist in giving the unsuspecting young woman a hard time, Crowley only spent a moment in thinking over his ensuing reply before he sent the text that he hoped would lend a sufficient air of intrigue to the proposed meeting, without putting the detective off of such a thing, entirely. Something about the prospect of teasing her, even just a little, was far too amusing to resist…

After all, she had been the one to start this entire charade, so it only seemed fair he should be the one to finish it by regaining the upper hand.

I'll text you when I find a good spot. Ciao, love.

With phone still in hand, Crowley managed a sip or two of the water he had grabbed while he allowed his attention to stray over the messages for a second time, the apparent distraction provided by such a thing evidently enough to render him incapable of hearing the approaching footsteps of the woman in the flat along with him. Before he could even attempt to stop her, she had come to his side, and swiped the phone he had been perusing from his grasp. And in spite of the grunt of protest he made in response, Crowley knew it would be highly unlikely that he would be able to retrieve the device until Freya had given it a cursory investigation, herself, one fair brow quirking as she read, before her eyes turned towards him, instead.

"Thought you said she wasn't going to be a problem."

"Since when is trading a few text messages a problem, love?"

"Oh, gee, Anthony, I don't know—maybe when those texts are pretty obviously flirtatious?" Freya surmised, snatching the phone away from her companion's questing hand, and managing a few steps out of his reach before going on, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Seems to me I'm only doing my job, Freya."

"I don't seem to recall you flirting with Shadwell—"

"The man isn't really my type," Crowley teased, noting the eye-roll brought about by his attempt at using Freya's earlier words against her, and yet choosing to press on regardless of the consequences such a thing might earn him as far as her retort was concerned, "Always thought he was more your sort."

"Can you just be serious for once?" Freya implored, the uncharacteristically pleading cast to her tone obviously causing her friend to frown, though she did her best to ignore it in favor of going on before she lost her nerve entirely, and allowed Crowley to get out of this without voicing her concern, "You need to think about what it is you're doing, here."

"Who says I'm not already?"

"Cut the crap, Anthony, I know you. I know what you're like when a pretty woman is involved."

"If I didn't know any better, I might take that as an insult."

"Take it however you like. It's still the truth, either way."

"Glad one of us is so sure of my motives, then," Anthony quipped, resigned to the prospect of Freya holding permanent custody of his phone, at least for the time-being, and placing his now empty glass back on the countertop beside the sink before opting for moving back out into the den, with Freya close at his heels, "My offer still stands, you know. You're welcome to meet her yourself, if it'll put your mind at ease."

"And I told you I wasn't interested. What I am interested in is making sure my best friend doesn't wind up in jail, or worse, because he didn't know when to leave well enough alone."

"Did you miss the part where I told you this one wasn't like that?"

"She's a cop."

"A damned good one, too, from the looks of it."

"That's precisely my point," Freya pressed, watching Crowley carefully as he returned to his former position sprawled upon the cushions of his sofa, and folded her arms across her chest as she allowed him a momentary reprieve before going on, "Even if you aren't foolish enough to get involved with her, she could still find some reason to arrest you."

"Involved, Freya?"

"And once again, he misses the point."

"S'my job to miss the point, love. How else would I earn my title as your favorite pain in the arse, hmm?" Crowley inquired, noting the lack of amusement that was so apparent in his companion's expression, and yet finding himself completely incapable of the short laugh that escaped his lips, regardless, "Come on, Freya, lighten up a little. Everything's going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know that it will go pear-shaped, now do you? Not for sure."

"Can you blame me for wanting to try and protect you as best I can?" Freya demanded, moving from her position standing before the sofa, and leaning down to shove Crowley's legs out of the way so that she could take a seat beside him, in the same motion, "In case you didn't realize, arsehole, you're all I have left."

"Wow. Tell me how you really feel."

"Unbelievable. You are absolutely—unbelievable," The blonde groused, finally relinquishing her friend's phone via the act of chucking it against his chest, and priding herself in the soft grunt he made as it momentarily knocked the wind from his lungs as a result, "I wonder why the hell I put up with you sometimes, you know that?"

"Must be because I'm so scandalously adorable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"If it's all the same to you, I think I will," Crowley remarked, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth as he shifted to replace his legs where they had been before Freya had sat down, and lifting a brow as she let out a low groan of protest when she realized he intended to use her lap as a footrest, "Always helps to keep a positive outlook, and all that."

"I think they have a new term for that, now."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Denial."

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"I thought so," Freya replied, shifting so that she was able to lean back against the cushions at her back, even in spite of the fact that Crowley's legs were still very much in residence upon her thighs, "I take it you're not going to move these ridiculously long monstrosities any time soon?"

"Nope. Wasn't planning on it."

"Do you think you could at least manage to reach the remote and turn on the telly, then? I don't intend to spend the remainder of the day staring at your ugly socks as my only source of amusement, you know."

"Easy on the criticisms, love. My socks might get the wrong idea," Crowley joked, returning the slap Freya directed towards his knee by giving her a light nudge with his heel to her thigh, before leaning over onto his side to reach for the remote resting upon the coffee table, and flopping onto his back not long after that task had been accomplished. For a moment or two, he honestly debated on simply choosing a program to watch on his own, whether or not Freya ended up approving of that choice in the end. But some sort of instinct seemed to suggest he owed her this one small thing, as recompense for putting up with his apparently faulty judgment, at least insofar as her opinion was concerned, a slightly curious expression taking over his features as he cocked his head to the side, and regarded her for one final beat of silence before speaking once again.

"Anything in particular tickling your fancy, love?"

"As long as it's not some corny reality show, I'm all set."

If there was one thing Freya Dearborn hated more than just about anything else, it was being forced to watch drama brought about by those who she would label frivolous women griping about choosing a man as though it were the toughest decision anyone would ever make.

…

The following morning, Fiona woke alone in bed, her body apparently having splayed itself across the mattress in Gabriel's absence without any modicum of conscious thought. For a moment or two, she simply basked in the solitude, despite knowing that it was not too likely to be for very long at all, a satisfied hum escaping as she stretched, and rolled over onto her side. Some small part of her hated this feeling—this relief she felt at having the house to herself, so that she could start her day and attempt to ingest some caffeine before any sort of interaction with her fiancé became a requirement. But a still larger part was more than a little giddy at the idea of being able to take a shower without any sort of interference at all, a slow smile spreading across her lips as she threw the covers back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to plant her feet upon the plush carpeting beneath them without a second thought.

Padding over towards the door leading to the master bathroom, the young woman set about the task of preparing for a bath, soft humming seeming to escape without much thought at all as she readied herself for the day ahead. It was not often that she had a chance like this to simply do things on her own time-table, without the pressure of work, or Gabriel's needs getting in the way. And even inasmuch as she loved her job, Fiona would have been a fool to pretend she was not abundantly grateful for the prospect of at least a partial day off, even the knowledge that if Newt found anything that linked the two victims to one another, she would likely have to go in to see that link for herself not proving to be enough to sour her apparently light-hearted mood.

Just as she was prepared to remove her pajamas and step into the warmth of the jacuzzi, however, Fiona was distracted by the soft ringing of her cell phone coming from its place on the table near her side of the bed, a resigned sigh escaping as she shook her head in slight amusement, and turned on a heel to head towards the sound not that long thereafter. Unbidden, her cheeks had started to warm, the thought of exactly what she might do if the person attempting to contacting her was Shadwell's informant causing her to chew idly at her lower lip before she even realized she was doing so…

"You are being absolutely ridiculous," She chastised, shaking herself out of her temporary embarrassment as soon as she realized the name scrolling across the screen was that of her former partner, and not the man she had arranged to meet the following day, at all. And so, before she could fully come to terms with the warmth on the skin of her cheeks, Fiona forced herself to answer the incoming call, instead, all the while praying that Jimmy did not catch on to the slight wavering in her tone as she greeted him as succinctly as she could.

"Jimmy—what's up?"

"Good morning to you, too," The familiar voice quipped, a laugh echoing over the line before Jimmy was, for all intents and purposes, back to business once again, "Thought you were going to text me about when we should meet."

"I—I was," Fiona assured, one hand lifting to drag absently through sleep-tousled hair as she moved to perch upon the edge of the bed, and peered at the now-chipped nail polish on her toes for a moment, before going on, "I kind of thought maybe I should take a shower first, though, before all that."

"Oh—sorry. Did I—did I wake you?"

"Not at all. You just sort of stepped in the way of a bubble bath, that's all."

"Ah, the life of the rich and famous," Jimmy teased, aware of the scoff of exasperation that Fiona gave in response to the joke, and yet choosing to rib her just a bit more, regardless of how much he might know she did not want to be on the receiving end of such a thing at all, "How are things over there in the ivory tower, princess?"

"Shut up."

"Not so good, then. No wonder you're itching to get out of the house on your day off, only to spend it with me—"

"You know, there was a time I loved spending time with you," Fiona retorted, amusement tempering any and all potential for hostility in the remark as a smile toyed with both corners of her mouth, "Of course, that was before you started making fun of me for my house, of all things."

"You're really going to run with this, aren't you?"

"Only for as long as you'll let me."

"Would you be at all willing to hold off on that, in favor of actually telling me where you want to go?" Jimmy inquired, something in the eagerness he appeared to feel for getting her to come clean about exactly why she seemed to desire such a meeting in the first place causing apprehension to prickle over Fiona's skin, despite the fact that she knew she had to go through with it, if she wanted him to remain safe. Try though she might to convince herself that she was simply imagining things—that everything that had transpired in her current case thus far was simply coincidence, and nothing more. But regardless of how much she may have wanted to believe that to be true, Fiona knew, somehow that it could never be that simple. Not really.

Something was off, here, and if she was going to throw caution to the wind and attempt to find out exactly what that something was, then she owed it to her friend and former partner to be as forthcoming as she could, beforehand.

"What about—what about that sandwich place on the corner near Zee's shop?" She suggested, coming to the conclusion rather suddenly that it might behoove them to be close to somewhere safe to adjourn to, on the off chance their meeting were interrupted, even in spite of the fact that she was loathe to bring her own troubles to Aziraphale's doorstep quite so quickly before she was even fully aware of what she was up against, herself. She would never be able to forgive herself if she did inadvertently land her family in hot water because of her own inability to let sleeping dogs lie. But just as she had come to that conclusion, she was also every bit as much aware of the fact that she had to get to the bottom of this case, before it cost them any more lives than it already had…

Something that only seemed to solidify her resolve as she realized Jimmy had already started to reply in the affirmative to her request, his tone still light and carefree, as though he truly thought this was nothing more than a simple afternoon out between two old friends.

"Sounds good to me. You buying?"

"Just so long as you don't go for the meatball supreme again. I'm not too keen on taking care of you in the aftermath of that particular digestive misfortune a second time."

"Duly noted. Want me to pick you up? Say, around noon?"

"Or I could just meet you there," Fiona managed, a frown taking over her features for a moment as she contemplated the prospect of Jimmy's arrival to take her out to lunch, should Gabriel have already returned from wherever he had gone, before then. Her fiancé had made no secret about his distaste for her former partner, even though he seemed equally as displeased by the one she currently possessed. But before she could come up with any way of turning Jimmy's offer down without provoking any sort of suspicion on his part in return, Fiona found the gesture rendered moot, the easy confidence in her friend's words doing just enough to assuage her misgivings as he overrode her offer with an almost predictable response of his own.

"I don't think so. I've seen how you drive on a full stomach."

"Hey! Don't turn this into a sexist diatribe on female driving, mister—"

"I'm not! Just telling the truth," Jimmy assured, laughing openly at the heavy sigh Fiona gave in response to his quip, and moving to close the conversation so that the two of them could go about the remainder of their morning as best they could, "See you at noon, then. Your place."

"And I'll be waiting for you to rescue me from said ivory tower on your noble steed," Fiona jested, smiling in spite of herself at the return of their trademark ridiculous humor, despite the fact that it had been quite a while since the two of them had occupied the same police cruiser together to make their jokes in person, "See you soon."

"Yeah, Fi. See you soon."

Disconnecting the call, and tossing her phone back on the bedside table, Fiona rose to stand, and padded back into the bathroom in order to resume the task of preparing her bath, this time managing to fully disrobe even in light of the realization that the soft thud she heard coming from downstairs indicated Gabriel had returned, and she no longer had the house to herself. Regardless of how she may feel about such a thing, however, she forced herself to continue as she had been until she was sinking beneath the water's surface, and savoring the sudden warmth that seeped into her muscles as a result…

Whether Gabriel chose to intrude on her morning routine or not, Fiona was determined to behave as though the prospect did not matter to her at all, her eyes slipping closed as she resurfaced and leaned back against the marble of the jacuzzi, and did as best she could to pretend that she had been there, all along.

If she were to have any hope of broaching the topic of Jimmy's arrival with her fiancé without it turning ugly, she knew very well that she would have to approach the entire affair with caution, and a sizeable amount of submission, as well.

…


	12. In Shambles

"So I gather that you're not sticking around for a late brunch," Gabriel surmised, leaning against the doorframe leading into the walk-in closet housing both his, and Fiona's clothing, and folding both arms across his chest to match the displeased frown he wore, as well, while she replied in the affirmative.

"I'm not, I'm sorry. But this is a last-minute work thing, Gabe. Kind of means I can't miss it."

"Last minute work thing with who?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy Riordan," Fiona confessed, wincing in preparation of the likely response Gabriel would give in response to the information, and keeping herself rather carefully fixated with her back to him, while she pretended to take a far longer time than she needed choosing the shirt she would wear for the day as a whole, "He's been brought in on the case I'm working, and I wanted to bring him up to speed."

"Talk about a blast from the past."

"Yeah. It's been a while."

"And it had to be today?"

"Seeing as it was his nearest day off, yeah. Yeah, it had to be today."

"Too bad," Gabe huffed, stepping forward when he realized Fiona appeared determined to continue perusing her shirts and blouses, and placing both hands on her hips to pull her back against his torso, instead, "I had some big plans for us."

"Big plans," Fiona repeated, recognizing the pressure of her fiance's hands at her hips as a worthy indication that he had likely seen through her attempts to avoid looking at him, and exhaling slowly as she plucked a light blue blouse from its hanger, and did her best to remain still as she felt Gabriel begin to mouth at the skin where her neck met her shoulder, "Gabe, I-I really can't be late for this."

"A quickie then."

"I just took a bath."

"That's never stopped you before," Gabriel pressed, tightening his hold on Fiona's hips, and shifting them both forward until he had her crowded against the fabric of her shirts hanging on the rack at the far end of the closet, while one hand slid beneath the hem of the camisole she had donned not long after exiting the bath, "Come on, Fi. Let me show you what you're gonna be missing."

"I can't, Gabe," Fiona replied, attempting to squirm out from beneath her fiance's hold, and frowning as she realized his hands were now holding her waist so tightly she was sure there would be bruises there, after the fact, "Please, love. Jimmy is-"

"Jimmy is what?"

"He's going to be picking me up any minute."

"Really," Gabriel snapped, dropping his hands from Fiona's waist as though he had just been burned, though he did not step back even though she finally turned to face him, giving him a look that suggested she expected him to move to allow her to pass back into their bedroom so that she could change, "To me that sounds a lot like a date, not catching someone up on a case."

"He offered, Gabe, what was I supposed to say?"

"How about no? That seems like a workable start."

"It's not that simple," Fiona protested, forcing herself to look her fiance in the eyes, despite how the glint she saw there had her fighting tooth and nail to resist the urge to instinctively pull back in mere seconds, flat, "Please, I'm not making this up."

"Could've fooled me."

"Gabe, please-" Fiona begged, honestly hating the way in which her voice cracked around the words, though she did not seem capable of doing a thing to stop it, "It's work! You've met with colleagues on your days off plenty of times."

"None of those colleagues were men that carried a torch for me, Fiona."

"Well good. I'd be a little alarmed if they were."

"For God's sake, babe, this is serious! Jimmy Riordan's been making eyes at you since you joined the force. How can you not see that?"

"Because there's really nothing to see."

"You know I love you, Fi, but sometimes you really are delusional," Gabe accused, aware of the way in which Fiona's face had blanched in response to his words, and yet still summoning the wherewithal to act astonished as she pushed past him and headed towards their bedroom not long thereafter, "I really think Aziraphale-"

"No. No, you don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

"Blame Zee for every time we have a disagreement," Fiona hissed, donning the blouse she had selected from the closet, and reaching to tug her hair out from beneath the hem so that it could fall across her shoulders once more as she headed towards the dresser across from the bed to begin brushing it back into a ponytail to keep the strands away from her face, "It's ridiculous, and more than a little offensive."

"Well I can't be the only one that's told you he can be a little-"

"A little what?"

"Off, sometimes."

"Actually, yeah, Gabe. You are the only one who's told me that."

"Then clearly you haven't been spending time with the right sort of people," Gabriel said, moving to stand in the center of the bedroom, and watching as his fiance reached for a tube of lipstick and uncapped it to smooth a thin layer over her lips without bothering to reply to him at all, "And I think you should let me drive you to this thing with Riordan."

"I'm not doing that."

"Why? You want some time alone with him?"

"Now who's being delusional?" Fiona quipped, replacing the tube of lipstick on top of her dresser, and turning to head towards the bedroom door, only to find that Gabriel had closed the distance between them to grab for her arms, using the surprise she felt at the contact to propel her backwards until her back collided with one of the knobs on her dresser drawer, "Ow, Gabe-let me go."

"Do you want him? Is that what this is about?" Her fiance insisted, his fingers curling around her biceps, in spite of the fact that she had let out the barest hints of a whimper as the act caused a sudden pressure around the skin of her still-healing gunshot wound, "Answer the question, Fiona. Do you?"

"No."

"Now tell me why I don't believe you."

"I don't know why you don't believe me," Fiona began, wincing against the tightening of Gabriel's hold upon her arms, and fighting with all she had to avoid a visible sigh of relief when her phone began to buzz where she had left it on top of the dresser, "But I-I need you to let me go. I promise, Gabe, this is just work, but you need to let me go."

For a moment Fiona almost believed Gabriel intended to maintain his hold upon her arms, her teeth digging into her lower lip to keep herself from speaking any further, and giving him the impression that he had not come to the decision to relinquish his hold on her on his own. Some small part of her knew that this was off. That having to beg the man she thought she loved to stop laying his hands on her was about the farthest thing from what she should have to be doing. But still, Fiona was far better served to maintain the status quo, at least for now, as opposed to pressing her luck, her awareness of the lingering buzz of her phone causing her to freeze until she was barely even breathing as she waited for Gabe to do something, one way or the other.

"Fine. Go," He spat, shoving her away, and causing her to bump into the dresser once again while he turned away, and shoved a hand through dark hair that had started to fall free of its ordinarily well-kept style, "Have fun with your little lover."

"Gabe-"

"Go, Fiona. But don't act like you're surprised if you come home, and I'm not here."

If she thought she could fool around, and act as though he would not be able to tell, then perhaps he could do the same thing, himself…

…

"You okay?" Jimmy inquired, dropping his hand back to his side after the attempt to place it at Fiona's back had resulted in her almost automatically flinching away, "You seem a little skittish, today."

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Fiona assured, forcing a smile to her lips despite the fact that she hardly felt it would be convincing enough to persuade her former partner to back down at all, "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"That have anything to do with the knight living in your ivory tower?" Jimmy questioned, noting that Fiona's face seemed to crumple for only a moment, before she was rearranging her expression into something more resemblant of her typical demeanor as she replied.

"Nope. Just me."

"Really."

"Yes. Really," Fiona persisted, allowing Jimmy to pull a chair back for her at a nearby table, and taking the proffered seat while he moved to the opposite side to do the same for himself, "You're sure this place is okay?"

"It's perfect. Am I to assume that's your way to change the subject?"

"It might be. Is it working?"

"Only because I know you well enough to know I'm not going to get anywhere by pushing when you don't want to be pushed," Jimmy admitted, accepting one of the glasses of ice water that a waitress had already stopped by to give the both of them, and taking a sip almost immediately before going on, "So. Time to talk shop?"

"I think now is as good a time as any," Fiona agreed, fiddling with the straw in her own glass of ice water, and flexing the muscles of her shoulders for a moment to ease the tension that had taken root between them, "I think-I think someone might be leaking sensitive information about our case."

"That would explain why you and your partner were backed against a wall the other night."

"Precisely. But it gets a little more complicated than that."

"How so?"

"The person I'm suspecting the most, regarding this leak is-well, it's Gabriel's partner. Sandolphon."

"You're kidding me," Jimmy breathed, dragging a hand over obviously startled features, and leaning forward to allow himself the capability of speaking a bit more softly, to avoid the chance of being overheard, "Do you-do you think that Gabriel might be-"

"That he might be in on it, too? Honestly? I have no idea."

"Wow. Fi, I-I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," The young woman demurred, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear as it fell loose from her ponytail, and shaking her head to ward off the spasms of very real fear that threatened to send her into a panic if she did not keep them at bay, "We don't have any conclusive proof yet, but with how quickly those men were on us, and how Sandolphon claimed to have cleared the building beforehand-"

"You don't see any other way to explain it."

"I don't."

"Is he going to have any further reason to work with us in the future?" Jimmy asked, pausing for just long enough to wave off the waitress that had likely returned to take their order as he realized Fiona had almost immediately retreated just a bit from the presence, as though some sort of self-preservation instinct indicated that the other woman was some sort of threat, "We're fine for right now, thanks."

"Okay. You just let me know if you two change your mind."

Nodding by way of acknowledgement of the young woman's words, Jimmy returned his attention back to where Fiona still sat, arms now crossed before her chest in a gesture so defensive he was once again almost tempted to inquire as to what troubled her. It had to be more than just their case. More than the idea of being betrayed by one of their own, and the upheaval that would come about when everything came to light and the culprit was known to all. But knowing that she would likely rather focus on what they had initially ventured here to discuss, anyway, Jimmy bit down on the desire to question Fiona about her troubles, instead choosing to shift just a bit in the chair he occupied before realizing she was finally moving to reply to his earlier question after a small delay.

"I don't know. You know how Michael likes to throw partners together when one set fails to find a lead."

"And you don't think you and Ana will find that lead?"

"Honestly? It isn't looking all that promising," Fiona admitted, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands, and hoping that Jimmy simply took the act as an admission of hopelessness over the case alone, and not as further proof that something else was wrong, "But I'm-I'm waiting on a text from an informant, so maybe that will turn into something."

"I hope it does."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Do you know anything about this informant?" Jimmy mused, aware of the slight lift in one of Fiona's brows, and suppressing a slight grin in the wake of his pleasure over having regained the ability to earn at least some modicum of what might have been a typical reaction from a woman who he considered to be a very close friend, "Ah-ha. There she is."

"There who is?"

"You. Apparently all it took was a question about someone you barely know to bring you back to the world."

"That is-Jimmy, that is not what this is!" Fiona exclaimed, kicking gently at her former partner's shin beneath the table, and finding that she was completely incapable of restraining the soft laugh that broke free at his almost immediate yelp of protest, "It's not!"

"Uh huh. I believe you."

"I'm serious, Riordan. It's not."

"Keep telling yourself that, Fiona. I am never going to believe you," Jimmy teased, shifting to nudge at the toe of his former partner's boot beneath the table in retaliation, and this time not bothering to hold back his grin when she gave him the first genuine smile he had seen her wear all day, "How about I make you a deal?"

"What sort of deal might that be?" Fiona wondered, already suspecting that she had every idea what this proposed deal might involve, though she gave Jimmy the opportunity to bring it forward himself, without her assumptions getting in the way.

"I'll give up asking you about what's really going on to make you so jumpy if you tell me everything you know about your special little friend who's supposed to be texting you."

Whether she really relished the idea of opening herself up to more teasing about the enigmatic man she was supposed to be meeting later that weekend, Fiona appreciated that her companion was making the effort to distract her from something she would rather ignore for as long as she could…

…

As promised, it did not take Fiona long to realize that she had the house to herself after Jimmy had dropped her off, a soft sigh escaping as she toed her shoes off in the foyer, and padded down the hall into the den, instead. In truth, she would have been a liar to pretend she did not relish the solitude, her concern over exactly what Gabriel might be up to waning in response to the prospect of having the remainder of the afternoon and evening to regroup after what had transpired with her fiance earlier that very morning. It had not been the first time he had treated her in such a way, and she knew, somehow, that it would likely not be the last. But inasmuch as she wanted to believe that eventually, she would be capable of deciding when she had had enough, Fiona almost immediately shook herself from that particular line of thought, the idea of holding her own and telling Gabriel she was done suddenly far too daunting to entertain, at least at the present moment.

Truthfully, their relationship had developed almost before she could even blink, and yet the idea of ending things now still terrified her so fiercely that she almost could not breathe.

Determined to do whatever she could to distract herself from that thought before it could consume her, entirely, Fiona forced herself to turn her attention back to the task of maneuvering towards the den, hoping that a night of mindless television would perhaps ease her nerves and give her the chance to collect her thoughts for the moment Gabriel eventually did return home. But just as she had been prepared to take a seat on the sofa and reach for the remote to start the television, Fiona found herself distracted by the sound of her cell phone buzzing in her back pocket, her brow furrowing as she pulled the device out, and almost immediately bit down on her lip as she tried and failed to suppress the grin that wanted to toy at the edges of her mouth in response to the text scrolling across the screen.

Free tonight at ten, love. Meet at Siren's Cove?

Almost without second thought, Fiona was typing back her reply in the affirmative, a strange sense of what might have been only foolish optimism filling her as she stood once again, and prepared to head back to the foyer to grab her shoes and a coat, the realization of what the chosen meeting place really was hardly slowing her steps in spite of how she honestly wondered at Crowley's intentions in wanting to go there, to start with.

After all, Siren's Cove was known for being one of the higher end adult entertainment clubs that Soho had to offer…

…


End file.
